


Ophiocordyceps

by orphan_account



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, M/M, Mpreg, bodily autonomy issues, mifepristone use, mpreg subversion, trope deconstruction, trust me this thing should surprise you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1942905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My guts feel like they’ve been pulled out by hand, I’ll probably die chest-buster style, because this is physically impossible, but happening anyway, whether I want it or not – so yeah sure, let’s call it a miracle baby, you fucker.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Syngliocladium

**Author's Note:**

> Up-front, I'm not a fan of mpreg as a genre. It strikes me as problematic, body horror, tends to floss its teeth with the willing suspension of disbelief and is the graveyard where occasionally sexist and homophobic stereotypes go to die. With that said, this will be my second time writing it, sort of.
> 
> The first fic I wrote for this problematic genre came as a result of forgetting to put mpreg on a list of things I didn't want to write for an event, and I ended up writing a reasonably subversive, angsty little fic about it, mostly as a personal challenge. This fic falls more or less into the same sort of boat of challenge, albeit personal.
> 
> Recently I ran into an untagged thiefshipping mpreg by accident, and it was so poorly written - guys don't take positive pregnancy tests as a sign they're pregnant! Reddit proved it! - I thought I should prove you can write a story that fits into this genre, without running into the usual problems.
> 
> So with that said, this is Ophiocordyceps, and even if the genre isn't your cup of tea, I hope you'll give this thing a chance, body horror aside.

The Spirit of the Ring flopped down bodily on Ryou’s bed, pawing at his arm, “Hey landlord, wake up,” Ryou groaned, rolling into a tighter ball, and the Spirit poked him again, aiming for the soft space by his shoulders. Ryou gave an irritated, pained twitch and Bakura jabbed at the spot harder, “I need to borrow the car,” Ryou groaned, “Last time I tried to hotwire, I went staticky,” This time Bakura punched Ryou in the side, “Hey landlord! Give me the keys!”

Ryou turned over, and Bakura fell to the floor. He rolled as he toppled, coming to a kneel by Ryou’s bedside, the movement undeniably feline.

“What time is it?” Ryou groaned, as Bakura gave his hair a pull that was a touch too hard. Though it was undeniable that Bakura was more tolerable outside of your own skull, he made every effort to rise to the challenge, and beat his personal best, even with the handicap of his own body.

“Keys,” Bakura repeated, as Ryou reached over to pull his clock towards him.

“God, it’s like ten thirty,” Ryou flopped back into his hoard of pillows – a hoard Bakura had been slowly stealing from over the past few months, he didn’t think Ryou had noticed yet.

“Most people are awake at this time, just look at my wonderful self,” Bakura gestured towards himself, “I was awake at sunrise.”

Ryou flopped onto his back, rolling his eyes at the ceiling, “I have work this afternoon; you can’t have the car.”

Bakura scowled, standing up and springing onto the bed. He kicked at Ryou’s side, “Malik’s in town, if we didn’t live out in the middle of nowhere-” Ryou swiped at Bakura’s ankles with a tired, loose arm and Bakura simply hopped over the offending arm with the ease of practice, “I wouldn’t need the car, or-” He kicked Ryou a bit too hard in the lower back, and Ryou rolled after the leg, snarling and swatting at it. Bakura went down in a heap on the bed, grinning with one too many teeth, “Feisty! Okay, but if I had my own car then-”

“You don’t even have a license!”

Bakura snorted, “Trivial details,” He rolled onto his back, crossing his arms over his chest, “Ishtar’s only here for a few days, you know.”

Ryou eyed Bakura, brown eyes narrowing. He buried his face into his pillows once more, groaning deeply. He resurfaced, glaring at Bakura, “Alright, I’ll drive you into town, but you have to find your own way home.”

“He’s got his dangerous metal trap of a bike, I guess,” Bakura huffed, “Alright, deal then,” Ryou crawled over Bakura, staggering to his feet and stumbling into his bathroom.

“Malik’s not here tonight is he?” Ryou called back from the bathroom, yanking a hairbrush through his hair. He hissed as it caught on a knot.

Bakura stretched out, commandeering the bed in a long arch of a yawn, “Well of course he is.”

Ryou’s head poked round the doorframe, the brush embedded in his hair, “You guys kept me up all night last time, he is so not staying here.”

“Turn you on, huh?” Bakura smirked, arms hooked behind his head.

Ryou gave a dubious look, “There’s no way I can answer that without you being a prick, therefore I’m going to ignore it.”

“Thattayes,” Bakura coughed heavily, smirking at Ryou playfully, “Gee, what a perverted landlord, huh?”

Ryou rolled his eyes, and stalked back into the bathroom, “Hmph,” Another hiss of pain, “Can’t you go to his? He’s staying at a fancy hotel and all…”

“Don’t I wish?” Bakura sniffed delicately, “His sister doesn’t like me.”

“I don’t like you,” Ryou muttered darkly.

Bakura rolled up, sliding to his feet, “Aw, is that anyway to talk to your loyal housemate? We used to be so close, huh?” He poked his head round the side of the door, before sauntering into the bathroom to pull faces as Ryou brushed his teeth, “Where did we go wrong?”

“When,” Ryou jabbed his toothbrush in Bakura’s direction, “You attempted to bring about the end of days,” Bakura flicked at Ryou’s hair boredly, and Ryou waved him away, “You know the only reason we’re housemates is because I’m the only person who can even halfway manage you.”

“And what happiness I’ve brought you,” Bakura laughed, and arched an eyebrow as Ryou finished brushing his teeth, gargling water, “I should pick up some groceries, though?” Ryou spat the water out, “You’re not a swallower, I guess.”

“Don’t be crass,” A smile tugged at Ryou’s mouth, “And buy groceries, I said buy.”

“As you would have me do,” Bakura waved a hand gallantly towards the door, “After you, landlord.”

Ryou pulled his hand through his hair, fingers catching on a missed knot as he pulled a hoodie on over the top he’d slept in. He wriggled into jeans as Bakura sprang back up on the bed, kicking at the pillows and sheets boredly. Dressed – ostensibly, Bakura raised an eyebrow at Ryou’s disheveled appearance – Ryou rummaged in his pocket for a moment, before pulling out a hairband and tying his hair up into a lazy sidetail.

Bakura tutted, steering Ryou towards the breakfast table and the cup of tea already laid out, pushing him down into the spot by the shoulders, “You should dress better,” Bakura snorted, undoing the sidetail and fussing with Ryou’s hair, “Drink the tea, landlord.”

“You burnt the leaves,” Ryou muttered, sipping at the tea and wincing as Bakura pulled a bit too hard, “And my hair is fine.”

“And my tea is fine, you ass,” Bakura snapped, and retied the sidetail, “There, I can actually go out in public with you now.”

Ryou drained the cup without coming up for air, and set it down, pushing his chair back, “Hotel or museum?”

“Museum,” Bakura ran a hand through his hair, fingers sliding effortlessly through the brushed strands as Ryou stepped into the kitchen, “So you hid them in the kitchen, huh?”

“Don’t you look,” Ryou growled, and there was the sound of movement from the kitchen. The sound of china.

Cookie jar on the third shelf, Bakura decided, he’d need to remember that. He made for the door, shoving his feet into his already laced shoes and wriggling until he’d managed to get them on, “We going?”

“Give me a-” Ryou cut off mid-sentence, and Bakura rolled his eyes. He couldn’t stand that. A moment later, Ryou reappeared, heading for the front door, “You look good,” Ryou appraised Bakura for a moment.

“Don’t I?” Bakura brushed at his jacket. He flicked his hair away from his shoulder proudly.

“Malik will like the new coat,” Ryou nodded, and pushed past Bakura to open the door.

“Like that matters,” Bakura snorted, hands shoving in his pockets, “I like it.”

“Uhuh,” Ryou hummed, keys jangling in his hand. He sounded unconvinced and Bakura glowered in his general direction, on general principle, “You two have been dating for what a year now? A month or something after you reappeared. That’s pretty good.”

“We’re not dating,” Bakura reminded Ryou, laughing under his breath.

“Uhuh,” Ryou gave a bird-like shrug, “I think it’s cute.”

“And I think you’re a little bitch,” Bakura snorted, “Milk, bread, the usual, some kind of tea for you?”

“Buy,” Ryou reminded Bakura pointedly, “Buy the groceries.”

* * *

Bakura and Malik returned late at night, drunk, no groceries, legs tangling and knocking into the kitchen counter. It would have been an oddly attractive moment – Malik grinning at Bakura, face flushed, hands mapping at each other’s hips – it would have been, save Ryou who entered with a small pile of used dishes, and began putting them away in the dishwasher. Malik tried to disentangle from Bakura, who locked him against the counter with his body, twisting his head to glare at Ryou.

They waited for Ryou to say something, but Ryou simply continued with his chore, ignoring them. When Ryou’s comment was not forthcoming, Bakura smirked, “Landlord,” His eyes narrowed, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your compa-”

“Don’t,” Ryou muttered in annoyance, kicking the dishwasher closed and stomping from the kitchen.

Bakura shrugged, ducking his head the crook of Malik’s neck and biting down, “Bakura,” Malik pulled at his hair, “I’m pretty sure the moment’s gone.”

“I’m stealing it back,” Bakura chuckled, fingers scraping lightly up Malik’s back, “Come on, the kitchen’s different – we haven’t used the counter much.”

“Because it’s an awful angle,” Malik wriggled out from under Bakura’s body, and Bakura growled, the low sound dark with displeasure, “We are not-”

“Oh come on,” Bakura rolled his eyes, following Malik from the kitchen, “The angle is fine,” He lunged for Malik’s hand, which twisted out of the way.

“Like you’d know,” Malik snorted, “Not like you’re the one taking it like a-” They crashed into the couch, sounding like a pair of squalling cats.

“My spine, ugh,” Bakura complained, trying to shove Malik off him, “Gerroff.”

“You didn’t even hit your back,” Malik sat up, leaning his hands on Bakura’s chest dazedly. Bakura snarled under the weight, and Malik shifted a hand, as Bakura squirmed violently beneath him. There was a yipe from Bakura, and Malik found himself flat on Bakura’s chest again.

Bakura was sucking air sharply between his gritted teeth, and coughed, “Get off, can’t fucking breathe, feel like I’m gonna’ puke,” Malik reeled his weight back, and Bakura kicked out, feet connecting with the arm of the couch. Another sharp intake of breath, and Bakura groaned in discomfort. Malik toppled forward, throwing his hands out to catch himself, hands landing just above Bakura’s head.

There was a thin shift from Bakura, a change in expression and a sticky smirk across his features; Malik looked down at him incredulously, “Honestly?” Bakura’s fingernails scratched at Malik’s hip bones. Malik grabbed Bakura by the hair, as Bakura shifted to nip at Malik’s arm, pulling him back, “You just told me to get off.”

Bakura’s hands settled on Malik’s hips, always a little too sharply, and held him in place, “Couch has a better angle?” Bakura stretched his head back, neck exposed like a submitting animal.

“Couch has to be used every day,” Malik rolled his eyes, trying to get off Bakura. Bakura bared his teeth, smirk tightening with self-confidence, and he arched his back. Hard, pressed their bodies together, and his fingers dug insistently in at Malik’s waist. Malik’s grip on Bakura’s hair tensed, “Bakura, no,” and Bakura rolled his hips, licking his teeth with a self-satisfied grin.

“Malik, yes,” Bakura slid his hands up Malik’s back, “Yes,” Malik let go of Bakura’s hair and Bakura sat up, letting Malik slide definitively into his lap. Licked at his collarbone, and nipped at the groove of his neck, and kneaded at the middle of Malik’s back, “Yes?” Bakura paused at his place on Malik’s neck, voice lilting in a question. His hands slipped back to Malik’s hips.

“Yes,” Malik grabbed a handful of Bakura’s shirt, and pulled Bakura’s grinning face from its position at Malik’s neck, kissed him with a clash of teeth.

“Ye-ess,” Bakura hissed into Malik’s mouth, hands curling around Malik’s lower back and yanking him against Bakura’s chest. He gave an annoyed grunt as Malik tugged Bakura’s shirt over his head, and pressed in to bite at Malik’s neck again, teeth a sharp critique.

Bakura pulled Malik’s shirt up at the back, bite turning into a decisive suck, and laughed into it when Malik pulled at his hair again, “10-4,” Bakura let go, licking at the flush of a forming bruise, and huffed as Malik pulled his own shirt over his head, dislodging Bakura.

Before the shirt was completely off, Bakura settled back to bite at Malik’s chest, hands slipping round the front. Where the back had been cautiously handled – claws sheathed, restrained and twitching with effort – Bakura raked gleefully down Malik’s front, leaving scoremarks across his ribs.

A huff of laughter from Malik, a twinge of pain and Bakura paused, glancing up questioningly. Malik pushed Bakura’s face back, fingers twining in his hair, before letting go and dropping to Bakura’s shoulders. Curled round them, and then scraped desperately between them, pulling at Bakura’s belt and scratching at his fly.

“Impatient today are-” Bakura cut off, uninterested in his sentence, and more interested in Malik’s jeans, “Fuck, come on,” He yanked at Malik’s belt, and it came out with a clack, catching Bakura’s fingers.

He yelped, and tossed the offending item away. It ended up curled innocently on the floor, whilst Bakura licked his injured fingers. Malik peered round at the sound of it, and threw Bakura’s belt after it.

Bakura winced, clenching his fingers rhythmically and Malik ground against him with an insistent whine. A single arched eyebrow from Bakura, a challenging kiss, and they pushed away from each other, clawing their jeans off.

“Fucking hell,” Bakura ground his teeth, half-caught in his jeans, “Why did I wear these goddamn-” His sentence came to a stutter, hitching stop as Malik – who had easily kicked his clothing off –pressed his knee between Bakura’s legs.

A low hum, and Malik shifted, pushing Bakura’s back into the couch and shucking Bakura’s jeans and underwear off simultaneously, in a series of graceless tugs. Malik straddled Bakura, hands settling on Bakura’s shoulders, toying with his hair.

“Yeah?” Malik shifted, spine straightening, the slightest hint of an arch and Bakura’s hands flicked straight to Malik’s waist, nails biting in.

“Yeah,” Bakura nodded, tipping his head up, and settling into his spot, “This works,” His expression twisted, teeth showing, and he shifted, unsettled. Malik moved, trying to give Bakura breathing space, flushing in embarrassment and Bakura gave a long, agonized snarl, “No.”

Malik rolled off Bakura’s lap, giving a rueful look at Bakura, “I knew you shouldn’t have eaten-”

“Shut up,” Bakura grimaced, curling into himself, “Shit, it feels like my body is trying to eat itself,” A shudder, “Gods, I think my organs are about to single file tango through my esophagus and back up out my eyes.”

“And there’s the mood,” Malik huffed, and Bakura gave a low whine, breath shallow and unsteady, “You okay?”

“Peachy,” Bakura whined, shivering.

Malik clicked his tongue, getting to his feet, “First aid’s in the bathroom right?” There was another groan from Bakura, “Mh-hm.”

Malik pulled his jeans on, listening to the whines and whinges shift into a mixture of whimpering, and swearing. He raised both eyebrows and darted towards the bathroom – whatever was paining Bakura had come on fast and hard and ill-timed.

Excessively ill-timed.

Hard to blame someone curled up in pain, and Malik gestured with the water and tablets, “You look like my brother when he had trouble with his gallbladder…”

“Not helping,” Bakura growled.

“Meds,” Malik held the water out and Bakura took it sloppily, downing the proffered tablets and splashing himself in the same movement, “I’m just saying maybe you should get checked; looks painful.”

“Painful? Really?” Bakura tossed the rest of the water in Malik’s face, and Malik flicked his now dripping hair out of his eyes.

Unimpressed, Malik sat down next to Bakura, and tugged his shirt on, “I can get Ryou; he’s a med student you said.”

Bakura snorted, the sound pained, “He’s barely started – hasn’t even touched one of those heart-listeners-”

“Stethoscopes,” Malik supplied, “As you like,” Malik leaned back in his spot, watching Bakura carefully as Bakura hunched over, and pulled his legs up, shifting every few seconds.

 

 


	2. Hymenostilbe

Bakura examined the mottled black spot that fanned neatly across the right side of his stomach. More accurately, it would be a blue bruise, feral purple on the edges. As confusing as it was ugly. He scowled at it, willing the thing to vanish with sheer force of will.

Tapping at it with a fingertip, he sucked in his breath before pressing his hand over the clotted edges of the bruise. Over the past two weeks, the discolouration had spread, reaching the size of his palm at its largest. Now it seemed to be retreating to some kind of manageable mark, and had stopped stinging and prickling at contact. He could touch it for a start.

“You done in there?” Malik was rapping at the door, and Bakura pulled a face at his reflection, dropping his shirt down at he did so.

“Just about,” Bakura called back, and snagged the neatly wrapped complimentary soaps from the counter, added a tube of conditioner that would just about manage his fringe. He nodded at the mirror, and whirled back for the door.

Malik sniffed, and strutted past Bakura, “You spend too long in there,” Bakura shrugged, digging around the hotel room for his socks, “Going huh?”

“Mh,” Bakura flopped on the bed, pulling his socks and already done up shoes on, “Things to do,” He declared airily, “Sights to see, valuables to steal.”

“You really don’t need to keep up with that thief king shit with me,” Malik rolled his eyes, and clicked the door shut with a lock.

Bakura got up, scuffling into his shoes properly. Spitefully, he picked up Malik’s earrings from the bedside, tucking them into his pocket. Satisfied with this trickery, Bakura leaned back against the bathroom door, “Tomorrow still good?” He called through the wood.

“I almost put my eye out, thanks.”

Bakura snickered, “Your eyeliner game is simply divine, practically worthy of Horus.”

“Don’t get smart,” Malik snapped, there was a thump of something, “Tomorrow’s fine.”

“See you then,” Bakura pushed off from the door, flicking his hair over his shoulder. As he stepped from Malik’s room, into the larger hotel apartment, he ran headfirst into Isis, and they studied each other warily for a moment. She circled round him, but Bakura simply stepped into her space, grinning up at her.

“Isis, I must be off now, so good to see you, I must say.”

“Spirit,” Bakura’s eyes rolled; he’d had his own body and life for a year now, spirit did wear a bit thin, “Where are you going?”

“Away from your darling, murderous brother,” Bakura picked up Isis’ hand, folding it around the earrings he placed in it. He patted it lightly, “Lovely hotel, paid for I assume?”

“The museum is more than generous.”

“Tomb robbers often are,” Bakura grinned to himself, “Now don’t look so sour, little sister.”

He snickered as Isis pulled her hand away, “Zorc’s puppet has no business with my clan-”

“Malik’s,” Bakura corrected breezily, “And not the Curse’s puppet – those were long put to rest by our Evening and Morning Star, Atem.”

Isis’ mouth curved downwards in distaste, and Bakura inspected his nails idly, “We both know you were not unwilling to follow those aims.”

“Ah,” Bakura chuckled, eyes flickering up and teeth showing in an animalistic smile, “I think we all know that, no matter. I doubt you ever blamed Malik for skinning your father, eh?” Bakura’s smirk widened as Isis’ face fell open, and he gave her a shoulder another condescending pat, before strolling towards the exit.

“Spirit,” Isis called back, “Don’t you dare-”

“Bakura,” He rolled his eyes back at her, “I’m not a Spirit anymore.”

“That’s Ryou’s name,” Isis replied curtly, fist clenching about Malik’s earrings.

Bakura snorted, pushing the door open, “If he minds, he’ll mention it I’m sure,” Bakura stalked out, letting the door clatter behind him in a rude slam.

The walk to Ryou’s house was long, but not unpleasant in the gentle weather of Japan. It was a far cry from a hobbled walk across achingly hot sand, and it was a far longer cry from the stench of the curse. The view was pretty, the people a bit much, the breeze very pleasing.

And there- digging into his side was the hot, feverish pain again. This time, he continued walking, shoulders hunching slightly as he dug through his pocket for painkillers. Dry-swallowing around them roughly, he crossed his arms over his chest and continued to walk stiff-legged, for home.

* * *

“Can’t,” Bakura called cheerfully from his spot on the couch, “Stomach hurts,” It wasn’t untrue, and Bakura tried to settle in a position that didn’t antagonize the bruise.

“I’m not asking for the world,” Ryou muttered, “Just set the table.”

“Can’t,” Bakura repeated, adjusting his position once more, “I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched in the liver.”

“Knowing you, I’m sure you were,” The familiar sound of scraping metal as Ryou dug into the cutlery drawer, “We have guests tonight.”

Bakura shifted again, “I’m not hiding in my room, the only comfortable place is this couch.”

“You,” Ryou gestured with a fork, “Are joining us.”

“I’m also not playing the role of your dancing monkey,” Bakura added, fishing another mouthful of painkillers into his mouth. He swallowed past them and Ryou narrowed his eyes.

“How many of those have you had?”

Bakura ignored the question, favouring resettling on the couch. He winced – unsure what he was wincing to, it wasn’t as though he’d jabbed at the bruise – but wince he did.

“You’ve been complaining of this for days,” Ryou set the last of the cutlery down with a final air, and took a step towards Bakura, “Let me have a look.”

Bakura rolled to face the back of the couch, “Touch me, and I’ll cut off your hand.”

“On your own head then,” Ryou stepped back, returning to laying out the table, “Were you sucker punched in the liver? That could cause liver contusion – you have been nauseous.”

“Contusion, how fancy, landlord the med student,” Bakura rolled to face towards the open side of the couch again, arms firmly crossed over his chest, “And I threw up twice, hardly a pattern.”

“Did you get punched-”

“Probably?” Bakura jerked about again, trying to find a comfortable spot, “Got an intense bruise on my side,” Bakura fussed again, facing the back of the couch again.

It came with surprise when Ryou’s hand pressed down on the spot, and Bakura jerked, all but spitting from pain and anger. He grabbed Ryou by the wrist, yanking until Ryou was sprawled in a heap on the floor.

“Get off me.”

“Your liver might be lacerated,” Ryou decided, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head, “I’d want to ultrasound there-”

Bakura kicked at Ryou, “You can take that thought and shove it so far u-” The door bell rang, and Ryou got to his feet, brushing himself down. He gave Bakura a look – one that had Bakura baring his teeth – and headed for the door.

* * *

Bakura played with his fork, head tucked in the crook of his elbow, “Mh?” He looked up across the table at the Pharaoh’s little ex-vessel, who was smiling winningly at him. Bakura gave a grin full of teeth, “What you want then?”

“How are you?” Yuugi’s smile made Bakura want to peel the friendly little face off with his fingernails.

“Oh, you know,” Bakura’s shifted, eyes flickering towards Atem, matching the cautious expression with a self-confident one, “Dastardly plots and wandering hands.”

“Huh,” Yuugi’s smile didn’t so much as falter, and Bakura took comfort in Atem’s flickering frown. That was a faltering expression if any of them were – doe-legged and bami-stepping from protective to fierce.

“How’s the spoilt prince faring?” Bakura’s fork bobbed in Atem’s direction, “Hey there,” Bakura nodded at Atem. Atem was glaring, and Bakura could have been dancing on air for how easy it was to elicit that response, “Nice weather we’ve been having,” Atem was seething.

“Very acceptable,” Atem agreed testily, and Bakura chuckled towards his own plate.

“Acceptable, mh-hm,” He smiled playfully at Ryou, “What are we up to landlord-”

“His name is Ryou,” Atem interrupted.

“Landlord is true enough,” Bakura snorted.

Ryou looked dubious, “Do you actually pay rent?” and Bakura scowled, flushing moodily, “It’s been a year,” And there was the unspoken point – Bakura glanced at Yuugi and Atem to discover the former had been party to this, but not the latter – it’s been five thousand years, get along-

Ryou had that look in his eyes.

-or else.

“To our truce,” Bakura lifted his glass, “One year of avoiding the elephant in the room.”

Atem – to his absolute credit – toasted it.

* * *

Ryou dangled the keys in front of Bakura’s nose, and he followed them with interest, “You have my attention,” Bakura stated silkily.

“We’re getting your liver checked out, you haven’t eaten for eight hours, we can ultrasound you,” Ryou swished the keys with a musical note, and Bakura licked his teeth, raising both hands in front of himself.

He lowered the left to his waist, bringing the other up towards his chest, “No deal,” He decided.

“Nobody will be there – we’re going to my school – I’m calling in a favour,” Ryou added. The hands stayed resolutely still, “Free access to the car for a week,” Bakura’s hands jerked the other way, “On the condition,” Ryou added hurriedly, “You can find the keys.”

The hands stayed still, “Deal then,” Bakura swiped the keys from Ryou’s hands, yanking at his fingers as he pulled the keys off them forcibly, “Starting now.”

“Sure,” Ryou rubbed his knuckles ruefully, and Bakura all but flounced – hair streaming out behind him – for the front door.

* * *

Bakura jerked away from the gel, hurriedly trying to peel his shirt down, and Ryou arched an eyebrow, “Might be cold.”

“Might?” Bakura yelped, as Ryou yanked the shirt back up, “It feels like hell froze over,” Bakura toyed with the gel warily, tacking it between his fingers, “What is this shit?” Ryou tried to shove Bakura onto his back, but Bakura remained sitting, waving the hand back, “Feels like lube or phlegm or come or something.”

“Have a lot of experience with that, do you?” Ryou snorted, adjusting equipment, “It’s an acoustically correct interface between transducer,” Ryou gestured with his intimidating looking tool, “And skin surface for diagnostic purposes. It is fully sterile-”

“You’re gonna be an awful doctor,” Bakura scraped the gel off his fingers onto Ryou’s shirt, “This is women’s stuff,” Bakura sniffed moodily, “Baby viewing gunk.”

“I’m not sure I want to be a doctor,” Ryou commented wryly, “And it’s acoustic gel – it has many uses-”

“Acoustic gel? Much more to the point,” Bakura grinned, “But it’s still gravid gunk.”

“Acoustic gel is too sophisticated, but gravid suits you just fine…?”

“It’s how you say it,” Bakura waved a hand towards the bruise, “Where do you keep supplies in this hospital anyway? Also, hurry up. Also do you keep opiates in this place? Also can you get a move on?”

“I don’t even know where to begin with that…” Ryou muttered, and Bakura eyed the ceiling. Whatever the transducer was, Ryou jabbed it hard into Bakura’s side.

“Quit it,” Bakura waved a hand at it angrily, “That’s too hard. Stop it.”

“Well it needs to be that hard,” Ryou grumbled.

“Bullcrap,” Bakura snapped.

“It does,” Ryou growled, “And if you were lying down this would be much easier.”

“You’re trying to puncture my side with a strange instrument,” Bakura replied, “I want to be at least sitting up to watch.”

“Look at it,” Ryou waved it under Bakura’s nose, “It’s rounded, covered in- ugh, baby gel. It can’t hurt you.”

“Well maybe if you weren’t trying to stab me with it!”

“I am doing you a favour,” Ryou gritted his teeth, “O-kaay, can’t see any problems with the membrane capsule…”

“Membrane? That sounds strange,” Bakura bared his teeth, “Quit trying to shove it between my ribs,” Bakura tried to inch back, “This is women’s stuff, I tell you,” He added distastefully.

“Ultrasounds are used for lots of things,” Ryou muttered, shifting the transducer and squinting at the screen, “Stop squirming.”

“Eh, your modern medicine is strange,” Bakura pushed a strand of hair behind his ear, “The pills I was using – para…huh.”

“Paracetamol,” Ryou responded absently, showing off his arcane medical knowledge again, and Bakura glared at him.

“Yes that,” Bakura snorted, “You don’t actually know how they work, but you use them anyway.”

“You’ve been taking how many?” Ryou rolled his eyes, “You don’t even know how to say its name.”

“It numbs the spine and brain,” Bakura bared his teeth again, the gesture was offended and sharp, “I looked it up in those wretched books of yours – those are expensive, I’ll steal you some next time.”

“You will do no such-” Ryou cut off.

“Agree to disagree,” Bakura eyed Ryou as he fussed with the equipment, muttering to himself about something inconsequential, “See you have medicines you don’t understand that change the brain, and they’re in common-use.”

Bakura looked at the ceiling speculatively, “Although I thought that the brain only made snot. Your book said it was where the mind was born, I don’t know if it’s out of date or something, because the soul is truly the-” He paused, narrowing his eyes at Ryou, “Is my liver broken or something?”

“No…” Ryou hedged, and Bakura raised an eyebrow.

“Eaten alive by a jackal?”

“Uh, can you roll onto your left side?” Ryou asked uncertainly, “And like, breathe in- slowly! Geez!”

Bakura narrowed his eyes at Ryou, “Do I have to?”

“Roll over,” Ryou insisted, and huffing Bakura rolled to give Ryou access to his side, “If you breathe in- slowly. I said slowly!”

Bakura took a heavy and steady drag of air, counting patiently in his head as Ryou continued shoving it into his side. He rolled his eyes, at least it wasn’t so jabby now.

“Bruised, but looks internal…” Ryou murmured and pressed the transducer harder into a more central section of Bakura’s abdomen, before twitching in surprise, “Holy fuck.”

“Can I breathe now?” Bakura asked, after the point, but cautiously.

“Yeah,” Ryou squinted at the screen, “Okay I’m going to see if I can get some imaging…” The transducer shook as Ryou clicked a button on the side of the screen.

“So,” Bakura said, voice a little too smooth, “Not to criticize your bedside manner again, but you said holy fuck and I’d appreciate being kept in the loop.”

Ryou placed the transducer to the side, studying the screen with a completely lost expression, “Yeah, okay,” Ryou tapped his index finger against his mouth for a moment, “Yeah that is definitely some kind of zygote.”

“A goat?” Bakura squirmed into a sitting position again, “What?”

“Zygote,” Ryou repeated incredulously.

“Which is?” Bakura ran his nails through the gel, peering down at the bruise, “Not that I’m worried, but just what the hell is going on?”

“Baby,” Ryou supplied after a moment, “I think, it’s like attached in a strange spot and was pushing at your liver I think but-” Bakura was laughing, uncontrollably and gleefully, “I’m serious!”

“Mazeltov to me then,” Bakura chuckled, “This is good Ryou – I always knew you had more spark than the others give you credit for-”

“This isn’t a joke,” Ryou grabbed Bakura under the jaw, swiveling his head towards the screen, he pointed at it, “See-” Ryou gestured at the screen, “This is more of a blastocyst than a zygote, I’m not sure, it’s odd…”

“So it’s not a goat?” Bakura queried, studying the screen, “I didn’t think I’d eaten any of tha-”

“Seriously,” Ryou ground his teeth, pointing at the screen, “Look that’s the trophoblast…” Ryou gestured at the screen, “This thing is what maybe seven weeks?…But it doesn’t seem very well attached or-” Ryou shook his head, pointed another section, “The ICM including the blastocoele-? Is that the word?”

“Do you think I would know?” Bakura held a hand up, “Look this is very elaborate and all but-”

“And there’s ongoing division and-”

“Ryou,” Bakura cut over, “Nice hoax, but we,” Bakura scraped the gel off his stomach, “Do have to get going.”

“This is just-”

“Alright then,” Bakura pulled his shirt back down, swinging his legs off the bed, “I’m going back to the car, if you want a ride, you better come with.”

“I-“ Ryou floundered, “Can I print these first?”

“Creepy, but alright,” Bakura got to his feet, cracking his neck with a satisfied hum.

“We need to talk to someone about this,” Ryou stood by the whirring printer, snatching the papers up and peering at them just as incredulously, as before, “This is medically impossible; you could die.”

“I love your commitment to the bit,” Bakura snorted, “Even for such a ridiculous joke. You had me halfway convinced for a second there!" He laughed again, "Well come on, landlord, the car awaits.”


	3. Haptocilium

Ryou was bent over the scan images, flicking through the print-outs with a troubled, confused expression, when Bakura peered over his shoulder. Bakura flicked his new – unexpected, most likely stolen – Nintendo DS lite closed, and poked the print-out. Ryou jumped at the sudden movement, twisting in his seat to look at Bakura.

He shrugged, “So where is this thing?” His tone was almost nonchalant, “In my liver or something?”

“You’re taking it seriously now?” Ryou’s frown deepened.

“I feel odd, decidedly so,” Bakura slid the DS into his backpocket, “And you’ve been staring at them for like a week – so tell me, where is it anyway? Why’s it there?”

Ryou nodded at Bakura’s stomach area, “It was embedded in the wall about here – it’s near the liver, but it’s not in your liver.”

“Mh, and what’s it doing there?” Bakura folded his arms over his chest.

“Growing I guess?” Ryou clicked his tongue, “It’s odd… I don’t think it’s been embedded long, but that’s not right given the growth, I just can’t put my finger on it. It’s not right.”

“The whole thing isn’t right,” Bakura slid into the seat to the left of Ryou, “And I meant more how it got there.”

“I thought you’d know that?” Bakura shook his head, “Uh- magic?” Ryou offered haplessly, and pushed the print-outs towards Bakura.

“Gee, what a working theory,” Bakura picked them up studying them.

“It’s not illogical given everything,” Ryou pointed at Bakura’s body, “You got that through magic.”

“Granted,” Bakura squinted at the photocopies, “It sure doesn’t look like baby to me. Sure it’s not a malignant growth?”

“I’ve been studying those photos for over a week; I’m pretty sure.”

Bakura licked his lips a little nervously, “Alright,” A cautious, and sharp glance at Ryou, “If you’re yanking my chain, I’ll yank your intestines out.”

Ryou stared at him for a long moment, before reaching forward to take the print-outs, “This might kill you.”

He had said this earlier, Bakura recalled dully, it had been a lot funnier then.

Bakura met his gaze, mouth drying. He felt the vaguest burn of self-preservation; the ticker-tape of his own heart beat, his lungs shoving out his breath, and the shallow sigh left in its wake.

“Yeah?”

“It’s positioned… weirdly,” Ryou wrung his hands, “You’re a guy.”

“I was forgetting that,” Bakura rolled his eyes, and sneered dismissively, “What with this thing hanging out near my liver,” Bakura shoved his chair back, the legs scraping on the floor, “I’m going out; don’t wait up.”

* * *

Bakura kicked Ryou’s door open, and Ryou rolled up in his bed with a squawk. “Landlord,” Bakura greeted, leaning heavily against the doorframe, an single arm curled round his middle, “Help?”

His grin was sharp, and angular with pain. It was unpleasantly nostalgic.

Ryou was on his feet, brushing untidy hair from his eyes, “What did you do?” He pulled Bakura’s arm away, half-expecting a deep burgundy stain of blood. There was nothing – just dry cotton – and Ryou’s eyes settled on Bakura’s tense and toothy smile. The slightly glassy look in his eyes, “What did you do now?”

“Had this,” Bakura pulled the punctured tablet packet out, tossing it to Ryou, “Mifepristone, it says.”

“You took an abortifacient?” Bakura’s glazed expression crinkled in confusion, “Abortion pill?”

“Oh! Oh yeah. Took it,” Bakura looked pleased with himself, and Ryou was tempted to slap him for it, “Was pretty hard to find… easy to palm though,” Bakura giggled uncomfortably, “Cramping something ugly.”

“How many did you-”

“Just one, don’t need misoprostal,” Bakura glowered, sweeping his hair out of his eyes, “Gonna cut it out once I can see straight,” Bakura drew himself up to his full height, hand tucking back around his stomach, the other waving airily, “Need a wingman – how long does it take to die? Got your scalpals for school? Mine are used.”

“You’re a guy,” Ryou snapped, “How should I know if you can even kill it with a progesterone-blocker.”

“If words were money, you’d be Pharaoh,” Bakura grimaced, “Gonna’ help?”

“I’m going to take you to hospital,” Ryou snarled, “You’re an idiot every day of every week – why couldn’t you have taken just one day off!”

“Don’t you dare,” Bakura showed his teeth, and snapped them together in clear warning, “I’ll not be some animal to prod and look at. No hospital.”

“If this doesn’t kill you, I will,” Ryou hitched his arm under Bakura’s, dragging him from the room, “What? You thought you were just going to take pills like that?”

Bakura remained silent as Ryou slid him to the couch, and as Ryou returned with the first aid kit and a handful of books, he finally muttered, “It’s my body.”

It was defensive, and Ryou faltered at tone, but glared despite it, “And that means you can treat it like something replaceable?”

He set the books down, pulling a penlight out and shining them at Bakura’s eyes in a quick snap-snap of light. Dilated; not outside normal, but up close, there was a clear panic in them. He reached for his stethoscope, and noted Bakura actually shifted to let him check his heartbeat.

Complacently, Bakura offered a wrist and Ryou pressed two fingers to the stutter of Bakura’s pulse, as he ducked his head forward, hair falling over his eyes, “It’s _mine_ ,” This time Bakura’s voice was stronger, but again there was that oddly protective note.

Ryou flicked open one of the books, “I know,” He allowed, “I’ll need to ultrasound you as soon as possible,” He looked at Bakura, eyes narrowed, “It’s not like I called in a favour to use that machine the first time.”

Silence, accompanied by a shift as Bakura wrapped both arms about his middle.

“You won’t die,” Ryou pronounced after a moment, finger tapping on the page, “But you’re still a fool.”

“Granted,” Bakura laughed quietly, and Ryou settled back on his heels to dig through his first-aid kit.

* * *

“Maybe if I,” Bakura paused, marker hovered over his stomach speculatively. He pulled the new print-outs towards him, glared at them almost absently, “It’s sort of around… here…” Bakura circled a spot on his abdomen with the marker, “Hm.”

Directly digging the unwelcome thing from his gut had quickly become his best option, since apparently the wretched weed was still alive and well. He drew his lip back in a curdling snarl, reflecting that attempting to cut it out by himself wouldn’t go well. An unpleasant tingling sensation settled in his stomach at the thought.

Which left relatively few options, the most obvious was Ryou who had blanched at the suggestion and left. Apparently for a breather. Squeamish thing.

Bakura snorted under his breath, and flicked a page in Ryou’s medical journal, scrawling a cross on his stomach, “Can’t cut there…” He studied the journal for a moment, then the mess of lines and circles on his stomach. It was a hopeless disaster of pen marks.

Pensively, he scooped up the photograph again, glowering at it. He flicked it away from him, all his anger pulled out from under him before it had even solidified, and he flopped back against the wall, eyes clenching shut.

“Damn,” The marker rolled from his slack hand, and he gritted his teeth.

* * *

Ryou studied Bakura from across the table, and opened his mouth uncertainly, before closing it again. Bakura looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, before snorting and dropping the gaze. With that, he continued to pick at his food.

“Ah,” Ryou started, and this time the look directed at him wasn’t bored, but was lukewarm with irritation.

“Yes, landlord?” Bakura adjusted his hold on the chopsticks. There was a sliver of ice in the tone, and listening to it felt like laying that same ice flat against the skin. Stinging, catching and tearing away with each syllable.

“Nothing, then,” Ryou’s eyebrows knitted in confusion, then determination, “We should talk.”

“About?” Bakura shifted the food about on his plate.

“Well.”

“Tch,” Bakura took a reluctant bite of rice, and swallowed hurriedly, clearing his throat, “You know you keep talking about me dying,” Ryou nodded, “Just how likely is that?” A wave of the chopsticks, “If it stayed.”

“Uh,” Ryou blinked, “Well-” Another blink, “I guess I’d think pretty high? I wouldn’t suggest- that is if you were thinking of keeping the-”

“Oh, make my day,” Bakura growled under his breath, “Go on.”

“I just don’t see why you’re asking, that’s all,” Ryou commented suspiciously.

“Well I can’t just cut it out,” Bakura pointed out fairly and Ryou blinked, the movement a body-wide activity of surprise. That rounded look of confusion in Ryou’s eyes, and the thoughtful expression on his lips.

“Well, progesterone-blockers can cause a parental reaction in guys,” Ryou supplied helpfully, “So feeling that is normal,” Bakura’s teeth showed, “There’s also hormones-”

Bakura was on his feet, chair scraping back violently and his plate knocked to the side.

“I said I can’t just cut it out,” Bakura jammed his shirt up, showing the criss-crossing pen marks, “If you can find your way around this bullshit,” He gestured pointedly at a large scribble across his stomach, “Without this,” He threw the chopsticks across the table, with a satisfying bounce, before pointing at himself, “Bleeding out,” He dropped his shirt, “Well then- congratulations you can slice and dice the leech yourself!” He stepped away from the table, kicking his chair back into half-place and throwing his hands up in disbelief, “Accusing me of _that_!”

‘That’ came out somewhere between an epithet and a swear word, the sound spit-sharp in Bakura’s mouth. It slid down the conversation with an obscene air, and Bakura grinned – maniacally - before wheeling about and stalking away to his room.

Ryou watched after him for a half a moment, before resuming eating as though nothing had happened, “Needs salt,” He decided, reaching for it as Bakura’s door slammed.


	4. Tolypocladium

"Damn,” Bakura threw the sharpie away, and yanked his shirt down. The pen cracked against the wall, and Ryou toed it with his foot, raising an eyebrow at Bakura. Bakura’s mouth contorted into a jagged sneer, “The whole thing is bullshit,” Bakura clambered to his feet, dusting down, “Fuck, give me the keys.”

“No,” Ryou bent down to pick up the sharpie, and when he stood, Bakura snatched it out of his hands, “Hey!”

“Give me the keys!” Bakura flung the marker at Ryou’s chest.

Ryou shook his head, and picked the pen back up, “No,” Bakura swiped it once more. With a violent jerk of his arm, Bakura smashed the sharpie onto the floor, before stamping his foot onto it, grinding until there was a guttural snap.

“Give,” Bakura seized Ryou by the front of his shirt, “Me the goddamn keys.”

A bored roll of eyes, “No.”

Bakura shuddered, lip curled into a snarl and shook Ryou, “Give me the-” At some half-noise, Bakura whipped his head round, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing at the front door. Ryou’s brows furrowed, and a moment later heard the crunch of gravel. Bakura shoved Ryou away, slinking towards the window and twitched the curtain aside, “Fuck.”

With that intelligent observation ringing in the air, Bakura stomped towards the door, as whoever it was knocked smartly at it. Bakura pulled the door open and in the same motion, threw a punch at the person standing outside.

“Bakura?” Ryou darted to the door, squeezing past Bakura as he shook his fingers out.

“Tch,” Bakura glared down at the prone Malik on the ground, as Ryou flung a hand out towards him.

“I’m sorry- Malik? You’re bleeding! Here let me help you.”

Bakura took the opportunity to shove Ryou after Malik, who squawked as Ryou crashed on top of him, “What the hell Baku-” The door slammed behind them, and there was the heavy clunk of the deadlock.

Rolling off Malik, Ryou gingerly got to his feet, and pulled Malik up, “I’m sorry Malik,” Ryou studied his own front door miserably, “I don’t have a key on me – I’m sure he’ll calm down soon, though?”

Malik raised a doubtful eyebrow, but didn’t comment, instead tossing his hair back, and rubbing blood away from his nose, “No need, I know another way in.”

“Another…?” Ryou asked dumbly, as Malik strode towards the nearest window, and latched both hands onto it, “Wait, don’t-!”

The glass panel came out with a shivery pop, “-Don’t?” Malik set the panel down, and hooked both hands behind his head, “Oh, yeah, no, Bakura and I set this up ages back,” A rueful glance through the window, “Speaking of, did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Ryou sighed.

“Yes!” Came a shout from inside the house, and Malik swung over the window frame.

“You’re being immature!” Malik called back, and peered through the window at Ryou, “You coming?” Ryou tilted his head at Malik, before scrambling neatly into his home.

They made their way towards the kitchen, Malik taking a cursory look at Bakura’s locked door, before heading into the cramped space, “Tea?” Ryou rummaged through his cupboards, “I think we have some of that oolongcha you liked, hm,” Ryou pulled the caddy out, peeling the lid back and sniffing the leaves, “No, that’s kocha, um, so back in Japan so soon?”

Malik pulled the fridge open, and removed some ice-cubes from the freezer insert on the top shelf, “Oh, yeah clan business this time, so I thought I’d keep Rishid company,” He wrapped the ice-cubes in a tea towel and pressed it against the nape of his neck. Tipping his head back, he leaned against the kitchen counter, “And Bakura too…”

There was a query in the voice, and Ryou sighed. He flicked his kettle on and resting back against the counter across from Malik, “He’s just stressed.”

“He’s upset,” Malik corrected, “It’s different.”

Ryou drummed his fingers on the counter, “Well yes,” He looked off to the side uncomfortably, “I probably shouldn’t say.”

He tipped his head, listening to the increasing boil of the water, and reached his hand out to hover over the kettle’s handle. It heated to a perfect boiling point, which was terrible for tea, although there was little good telling Bakura that.

There- Ryou pulled the kettle off, pouring the water into three cups.

“Should I leave?” Malik took the cup Ryou held to him in his spare hand, and set it to the side. He looked at Ryou quite seriously, shifting at the melting ice at his neck.

Ryou hummed, and breathed in deeply over his own cup, “Do you want to?”

“He’s upset,” Malik shrugged, “He’s my best friend,” This equation seemed to add up satisfactorily to Malik, and he picked up his tea, sipping it delicately.

Ryou took a long drag of tea in answer, sliding the third cup vaguely towards Malik, who grimaced, and dumped his makeshift icepack into the sink. Ryou nodded as Malik picked up the third cup, and headed back for Bakura’s room, “Break a leg,” Ryou called after him, smiling into the steam curling off his tea.

* * *

“Open up,” Malik tapped at Bakura’s door with his foot, “Oi, stop sulking-”

“I’m not sulking,” The voice came from behind Malik, and Malik yelped, tea and coffee spilling over his hands. Bakura snorted, and pulled the coffee from Malik’s hand, “Stop kicking at my door, idiot,” He sniffed the drink, nose wrinkling.

“Where were you?” Malik flicked the cooling liquid off his fingertips.

“Bathroom,” Bakura’s head jerked back down the corridor, “Ryou took my bedroom lock off.”

“So you were sulking, then.”

“What do you want?” Bakura made to sip the drink, before pulling away, mouth crinkled with distaste. He tipped it out onto the carpet, “Got blood on your face by the way…”

Malik spluttered on his tea, “You punched me.”

“Well this is _your_ fault,” Bakura shoved the empty cup into Malik’s hands icily.

“Just what is my fault?” Malik snapped, he gestured at Bakura with the empty cup, “You’re being misleading,” Another crisp hand movement, “Deliberately so.”

“I don’t think you can reasonably blame Malik,” Ryou put in from the main room, and Bakura whirled in his direction.

“Butt out host!”

“Not your host,” Ryou muttered, but fell quiet again.

Bakura’s eyes pinned on Malik again, and he flashed his teeth in a clumsy, animal jerk of his head, “This _is_ your fault.”

“Again,” Malik repeated, “What is my fault?” Malik’s voice was calming, settling into a patronizing soothing tone that had Bakura’s nerves searing with a hiss.

“The leech in my gut!” Bakura snarled, “You put it there!”

“Again, this isn’t exactly a normal situation so-”

“Shut it Ryou!” Bakura turned on Malik, “Like I said, it’s all your fault.”

Malik rolled his eyes, grunting in frustration, “You don’t even make sense right now,” Malik breathed out hard through his teeth, “What leech? An actual leech?”

“Goat apparently,” Ryou chipped in.

“I said shut up!”

“He’s pregnant,” Ryou stated, and when Bakura rounded back towards him, twitching and choking on his words, Ryou looked up from his book, shrugging with one arm, “Well you were going to say – I saved you the trouble.”

Bakura snarled, long with irritation flat in his throat, before spinning back to face Malik, “Well as you can see that would be your fault!”

Malik shook his head, “Wait wait, but you always insisted on pitching so it can’t be my fault,” He looked thoughtful, “Must have been someone you play catch with.”

“Too much information,” Ryou buried his nose back in his book.

“Does it look like this discussion concerns you, Ryou? No, well stop talking,” Bakura scowled, eyes narrowing and a flush burning across his face, “I don’t play catch with anyone – I’m not fucking anyone else.”

“Well that’s the idea, they fuck, oh,” Malik squinted, “Wait, what but you’re not?”

“Well I don’t exactly know that many people! I was dead!” Bakura jerked his head towards Ryou, “There’s only Ryou really, and he’s not interested.”

“Oh god,” Ryou shrank, all but trying to push his face directly onto the book, “I can’t hear that.”

“Yeah, but,” Malik shook his head, “You always top! That’s pretty much your one condition!”

“I know what my conditions are!”

“Well as you can see, it’s not my fault you’re pregnant,” A beat, and Malik barked out a laugh, “Wait wait, wait, wait on, you’re a _guy_ – why am I discussing this with you?”

Bakura gave Malik a dumbfounded look, “You’re an idiot.”

“Yes, hilarious – you two pulled one over on me, I’m an idiot,” Malik rolled his eyes, and Bakura continued to blink at Malik, arms crossed and fingers drumming, “What?”

“Malik,” Ryou placed his book down, skimming a folder from the coffee table and walking over towards them. He pulled the tea from Malik’s hand carefully, “I doubt it’s your fault-” Bakura shot a glare at Ryou, as Ryou handed Malik the folder, “But there is something going on,” Malik tipped the folder out, inspecting the ultrasound pictures, “That was taken earlier this week, and the one before almost three weeks ago.”

Malik took an empty gulp from Bakura’s drained cup, and stared at it blearily.

His attention resettled on the more recent picture, “One of my co-workers was pregnant,” Malik said after a moment, “She was showing off the first ultrasound last year,” He glanced up at Bakura, “Are you kidding me?”

“Do I-“ Bakura stuttered, anger flaring, “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“Bakura I could see this kind of joke from,” Malik continued to try and drink from the empty cup, staring at it in confusion again, “Not Ryou.”

“Why would anyone joke about this?” Bakura demanded, “There’s a parasite in my stomach!”

“Baby,” Malik corrected.

“Foetus at this stage actually,” Ryou looked at Bakura warily, taking a step outside his immediate range.

“Leech,” Bakura insisted, voice a splintered spray of ice, “An unwanted, unwelcome leech I can’t cut out without bleeding out, so here I am, waiting for it to move into a position where I can pull it out and grind it between my teeth!”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Malik’s eyes narrowed at Bakura, “You’re getting rid of it?”

“It’s my body,” Bakura took a step back.

“It’ll probably kill him,” Ryou added cautiously, “Besides it has to be cut out somehow, even if, you know it’s not got rid of.”

“Huh,” Malik took yet another dry drink from the cup, and Bakura swatted the mug to the ground, hearing it crunch with a satisfied growl, “I don’t think this is my fault, Bakura.”

“Well whose fault could it possibly be,” Bakura rolled his eyes, “You’re my only partner so-”

“And about that,” Malik tipped his head, earring chiming with the movement, “Seriously? Just me?”

“That’s what I said-”

“Only you seem like the kind of guy who’d-”

“Fine,” Bakura bit out, “So when are _you_ expecting, asshole-”

Malik squinted, tapping the broken mug with the side of his shoe, “I thought you said you were pregnant not-”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Bakura shifted, stepping towards Malik, “When are you expecting to die then, ‘cause-” And with that Bakura drew his hand back to strike Malik again. Malik jerked his arms up in front of his face, the ultrasound pictures clattering to the floor with a swish of paper, and Bakura’s strike landed neatly on Malik’s gold armbands.

Bakura hissed in pain, clutching his hand, and Malik lowered his arms, “Shit, you okay?”

“Leave me alone!” Bakura snarled, shoving past Malik into his room, door banging shut behind him. Ryou carefully picked up the dropped papers, setting them aside and began picking up the larger shards of china.

Malik hunkered down, gingerly picking up a few segments of china. They met eyes across the damp, sharpened carpet – and there was the angry sound of a sob behind the closed door, the sound dragged out through a reluctant throat and left stale in the air, shaking and hissing – and they averted their gazes.

* * *

“Where is he?” Bakura’s expression gave no indication he’d stayed in his room for hours, screeching, throwing objects around the room and crying furiously in uneven turn.

“Malik?” Ryou leant his head back on the couch to look up at Bakura, “He went back to the hotel almost an hour ago.”

“Oh,” Bakura looked puzzled, face falling slack at some alien idea, “Could I have the keys?” Ryou peeled them from his pocket, passing them back to Bakura gently – usually he threw the keys and Bakura would dive after them if the throw was bad, “They were in your pocket?”

“I only pretend to hide them in the kitchen,” Ryou shrugged, “See ya,” With that Ryou flipped a page in his book, and Bakura slunk to the door, gingerly digging his feet into his shoes and shutting it behind him with a click.


	5. Hirsutella

There was a distinct click in the door, and Bakura inspected Ryou’s keyring: the metal was bent sharply, and twisted at the overlap. He toyed with it, as he pushed his way into the Ishtar’s hotel apartment, and finally simply shoved the distorted ring into his pocket, along with his now loose keys. Malik was already sitting at the table with his brother and three mugs.

Bakura stomped over, and slung himself into the seat next to Malik, “Bakura,” Rishid greeted neutrally over his drink, and Bakura gave a cursory nod across the table, arm settling over the back of the chair.

“Thanks,” Bakura responded curtly, as Malik slid a drink across to him, and once again wrinkled his nose at the smell, “Did you burn the coffee?”

“I did not,” Rishid took a long draught, tone careless but firm.

“Whatever,” Bakura shrugged, and eyed Malik, an apology flitting uncomfortably in his mouth. Exhausted at the idea of it, Bakura simply leant in to kiss Malik’s lips in a quick, almost disinterested motion. Malik didn’t respond – which was _fine_ , honestly – and Bakura pulled his coffee towards him, taking a grimacing gulp.

The nausea was immediate and red-hot in his stomach. He all but flung the cup away from him, rubbing at his mouth, and scraping his tongue along his teeth in disgust.

“Where’s that sister of yours?” Bakura snapped at Malik’s searching expression, wiping it off and leaving a cooling, disappointed frown in its place. Bakura shrunk slightly in his seat, “Thanks for waiting up for me,” He sounded sarcastic, and when Malik’s gaze laced with venom, Bakura shrank back further, “Ryou said you were there for hours…”

Finally, Malik’s expression softened, and soothed, Rishid got to his feet, “Isis is speaking with the museum supervisors,” Rishid nodded at Malik, “But I will go see if she has returned.”

With that, Rishid left Malik and Bakura stewing in the somewhat awkward atmosphere, that – Bakura gritted his teeth at this – was entirely his fault. The air was physical in his lungs, and his mouth still had that gruesome, burnt coffee taste in it and there was something living inside of him and the nausea was back, violently so.

He swallowed it down, “Does Rishid-?”

“Yeah,” Malik flicked a fingernail against his mug, and Bakura growled under his breath, “Sorry, it just sort of- Rishid won’t tell anyone, not even Isis.”

“You’re not meant to tell anyone,” Bakura pointed out.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Malik ran a hand through his hair, fringe brushed into an askew mess, “It just came out like word vomit.”

“I feel like vomiting,” Bakura rolled his eyes, and glanced at Malik, “No I mean literally - that was fucking awful coffee.”

Malik studied him, “You want a bucket or-”

“Fuck no,” Bakura pushed the mug further away, “It’s just a fact.”

“So this is actually happening to you?”

“I-” Bakura snorted, “Yeah, just about.”

“What did you do? It’s not like this is physically possible,” Malik leaned back in his seat, “I was trying to figure out _how_ but it doesn’t- like, it’s happening okay I’ll give. You’re a formerly dead guy from a fucked up dimensional mix up.”

“Actually,” Bakura reminded Malik, “I was never dead – being sealed in the ring only happened as long as dear Atem’s spell did, and when it ended, history continued as normal,” A sly grin, “Give or take a few thousand years,” Bakura waved a hand dismissively, “So being dead is just part of the past not my past.”

“Ugh, don’t start,” Malik glared, “The timeline choked on an alternative universe and hiccoughed two former spirits back out, that is all I want to and need to know about that,” A click of the tongue, “What I want to know is why you’re-” An expansive gesture at Bakura’s stomach area.

“Fuck if I know,” Bakura shrugged, “Perhaps the Gods have a sick sense of humour.”

“We both know Gods are bullshit,” Malik replied, leaning back in his chair, “I hope we’re not about to get religious…”

“The items are gone, the shadow games finished,” Bakura rolled his head, cracking his neck, “The only magic left to blame is all the fake bullshit, so I might as well,” A scathing glare, “And you might as well tell your damn sister.”

Malik picked up Bakura’s cup, walking carefully into the kitchen and pouring it down the sink, “I don’t have any excuses,” He added quietly, “For telling Rishid.”

Bakura threw a hand up, “Then shut up and move past it, it’s not like it matters,” A bitter taste in his mouth, unrelated to the nausea, “I suspect I’ll be dead soon enough.”

Malik dropped the cup, and it clunk heavily against the sink. He whipping round to face Bakura, “Dead…?”

“It’s-” Bakura faltered, before touching a place on his shirt, “It’s hereabouts,” A shift of his fingers, “My… liver,” Another shift, “And then there’s – there probably isn’t… the human body can adjust, but I can’t work out… removal, and it will, if I don’t end up mangled, it will… need…eventual…”

“Ah,” Malik returned to his spot at the table, eyes fixed on Bakura’s stomach, “I thought you said something about a position change.”

“One I can’t guarantee,” Bakura sighed, folding his arms on the table and listlessly dropping his head onto them, “Only thing stopping me from trying to slit it out anyway is hope.”

“Ah…” Malik swallowed, clearing his throat, “Can… can I try?”

Bakura’s eyes shifted from dry to wet heat, “Fine, if you think you can do better, go right ahead,” Malik threw his hands up, scowling and the heat in Bakura’s nerves receded. He grinned stiffly, voice softer, “Feel free, honestly,” Bakura pulled his shirt up, shifting in his spot and Malik got to his feet, moving his weight in discomfort.

“Where is-” Malik clambered down, kneeling at Bakura’s side, “Where exactly is it?” Malik’s fingers hooked onto Bakura’s jeans and pulled, until Bakura was sitting sideways on the chair. An almost frightened press of his fingertips to Bakura’s stomach, and Bakura jerked away from the cold contact.

He sighed, and took Malik by the hands, placing the right hand over the spot, “Under your palm, Malik.”

“How deep?” Malik’s hand closed, as Bakura’s dropped to his sides. The fingernails brushed coolly at Bakura’s waist, and Bakura shivered.

“Like the smart-mouthed cripple we pushed for the second warehouse,” Bakura’s comparison had Malik swallowing uncomfortably, “You remember how deep I got the-”

“I remember,” Malik interrupted, gaze focusing. A moment passed, Malik inhaled, long and even. Another moment and there was the soft grunt, as Malik breathed out through his nose.

“Don’t worry,” Bakura muttered, “I’ve spent days trying to-”

Three delicate scratches at Bakura’s stomach, and Malik raised his eyes, searching Bakura’s face for some answer. Malik’s mouth was slack, confused, and Bakura’s expression fell open as Malik retraced the lines. The nausea was unbearable, and Bakura reeled back, scrambling to his feet.

“Rishid!” Malik called out, eyes not leaving Bakura’s face, and the sick feeling was tight; airless across his chest, “I need a check!”

Bakura sprinted for the kitchen sink, coughing, swearing; a hot band of pressure along his lower back. There was no vomit, just a roiling feeling in his gut as he stared into the sink. Gripped the edges, and then pulled away in disgust. He snarled, kicking at the wall, and snarled louder, when his foot connected in a spark-shower of pain.

“Will you stop that?” Isis and Rishid were home, summoned by Malik’s yell, like their little brother’s whining was some potent spell. Bakura fixed a decided glower at them both, showing teeth with a low growl.

“Rishid,” Malik pulled Bakura towards his brother, and Bakura dragged his feet, heels catching, “I need you to check something-” Malik was on his knees again, Bakura’s shirt pulled away and those three sweet lines drawn out with the tip of the nail, “Mid-depth,” Malik repeated the gesture, “Rishid?” Bakura pulled in Malik’s grip.

Isis and Bakura’s gazes were still locked, like feral creatures unsure of each other. Wolves brushing muzzles and showing teeth. Her suspicion was self-righteous, and his anger was a dull ache in his head.

Another three lines scratched gently at Bakura’s stomach.

“Survive,” Rishid stated quietly.

Malik got back to his feet, looking satisfied with himself and dusted his knees off. Bakura’s shirt was still ridden up and he bared his teeth at Isis, jerking it down with a shaking hand.

“Stop staring, you look stupid,” Bakura growled at Isis, backing into the kitchen sink.

“What is going on?” Isis ignored him, gaze torn away and left bleeding fury through Bakura’s veins. She spoke to Malik, as though Bakura didn’t exist; some insect in the kitchen of her life.

Malik answered the same way, “If you can believe it, he’s got some kind of miracle baby next to his liver.”

That was enough to set Bakura off, and he was nothing, but sharp angles, his muscles coiled. He sprang at Malik, “Oh that is _it_!” Bakura slammed into Malik, knocking them both to the floor with a crash, and struck him, hands curved into sly claws, “I have had it up to here with you!” He needed blood under his nails right now, and Malik’s yelp was sugary sweet.

Malik arched his hands above his head, “I’m not going to hit him! He’s pregnant!”

“Just for that,” Bakura lashed out hard, fists tight, “I am going to eat your fucking face off!” He half-meant it, but Rishid’s lanky arms wrapped around his waist and Bakura was pried off Malik, still thrashing.

Rishid’s arms were gentle, nothing more than restraints, even when Bakura clawed at them. He squirmed in the grip, bit down into Rishid’s shoulder and elicited nothing more violent than a dirty grunt of pain.

“Hit me!” Bakura screamed, “Goddamn it! Someone hit back!”

Rishid simply puddled Bakura onto the nearest couch, and pushed him back down when he tried to surge up. The shove was light and although not kind, didn’t hurt. Bakura yowled, words stolen right out from under him.

When the words returned, they were shrill with humiliation, “I said hit back!” And Malik pressed into Bakura, a hand carded insistently in his hair, some soft words leaked from Malik’s mouth. Bakura’s ears rung, his blood gale-loud in his skull. So he punched at Malik’s chest, “I said hit me, you fucking coward!” He shoved Malik to the floor, and Rishid darted to Malik’s side. Bakura rose to his feet, when something dull, and knife-like connected with his cheek.

He touched his face; Isis has slapped him.

“Stop it!” They stared at each other, breathing heavily, “Malik,” Isis’ eyes were still trained on Bakura’s, “I need you and Rishid to pick up some groceries.”

“But-” Malik stepped forward, and Isis’ expression crept into Bakura’s spine like a touch of frost. He straightened at the chill, and Malik must have caught some of it, because Malik stepped back again with a timid nod.

There was a dull mumble, and the door closed behind Rishid and Malik. Some noise.

“-Bakura!” He jumped as Isis shook him by the shoulder, “What is going on?”

He pulled away from her, scrambling as he moved to the far-side of the couch, uncertain when Isis had sat down next to him, “Well,” Bakura looked about the room, gaze darting from window to door, “It’s- well.”

Isis leant away from him, “Well?”

“It’s exactly how your fucking brother put it,” Bakura snarled, curling his arms around his waist, “Miracle fucking baby.”

“How?” Isis’ voice was accusing, and her eyes dropped firmly to his middle. Bakura hunched over, legs pulling up to block her inspection, “Spirit, how did you-”

“I didn’t do it!” Bakura tightened into a ball, “I don’t even have that kind of magic, why would I do this to myself, why would I think this was a good idea? I couldn’t do this if I tried!”

“I didn’t-”

“Why would I choose this! It’s going to kill me if I can’t fix it, why would I choose that-”

“Bakura,” Isis cut over, “I did not say you did, I asked how it happened.”

“Well I don’t know!” Bakura tucked against the side of the couch, “I just want it gone,” He pulled his breath in, the air sticking through his throat, “I should go-” Isis caught him by the arm, “Let g-”

“Sit,” Isis instructed, standing up smoothly and stepped into the kitchen as Bakura settled back. She returned, pressing a glass of water into his hands, “Drink.”

“I don’t have to do what you say,” Bakura growled, and Isis arched an eyebrow, “Thank you,” He spat out, taking a grateful gulp of the water. He gulped, and then tipped his head back to drain the glass in steady, shallow swallows.

Isis waited until he’d finished, before prying the glass away from him. She was treating him like some hysterical child, and he was tempted to act just so, half out of spite. He surrendered the glass to her, and shifted in his spot, glowering at her with a petulant look in his eyes.

“Bakura, do you know anything about how such a thing happened?” Isis asked and Bakura coloured, “Anything that could have-”

He snorted, “Well your brother can answer those specifics.”

“Malik does not practice dark arts…”

Isis seemed confused, even troubled by this, and Bakura leered at her, “We generally don’t call what we do dark arts.”

Isis’ eyebrow twitched in the most delightful way, a piquant tremor of displeasure, and his respect for Isis rose, when her voice was nothing more than stiff.

“You’re certain…that…concerns Malik.”

“Mhm,” Bakura gave a lazy blink, “Of course.”

“Really?” Now Isis was the picture of surprise, “You don’t seem the type,” Bakura’s brow furrowed, and Isis’ shoulder lifted in a mild shrug, “Faithful.”

Bakura huffed, “I’m not.”

“Then-”

“I am then!”

“Well, which is it, Spirit?”

“Bakura,” His eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips cautiously, “Faithful then,” Then he growled, “Fuck, why does that seem to surprise people; I was dead. Not the prime position to meet people.”

“It’s been a year,” Isis observed, and brushed a hand at her neck, toying with her hair, as she moved the hand away from the empty collarbone, “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“Certainly isn’t your business.”

“You’re accusing my brother of something so sordid…”

Bakura laughed, “I’ve been seeing more of you this last year than half the-”

“That Malik associates with you is not in question,” Isis muttered testily, “Whether or not he _impregnanted_ ,” Both their faces twisted in abhorrence, “You? That seems important.”

“I just said he was the only one,” Bakura snapped, “Do you think I would lie?”

“Yes,” Isis raised both eyebrows.

“Well…” Bakura faltered, “I’m… I’m not.”

“Alright,” Isis conceded, and Bakura ground his teeth at the poise in her tone, “This does smell of magic, you are after-all-” She paused, head tipping, “Male,” She paused again, “Designated male at birth?”

“What?” Bakura narrowed his eyes.

“Assigned at birth?” Isis offered, and Bakura squinted further. Finally, she sighed, “A guy.”

“Why don’t you just say it like that,” Bakura snorted, “What’s with the designed at birth crap?”

“I honestly think the particulars would be lost on someone like you.”

“Hmph,” He looked off to the side, studying the wall, “I don’t have time to worry about the particulars right now,” He grimaced, “How, and why aren’t very important when I need to cut the thing out as soon as possible.”

“What do you mean?”

Bakura looked back towards Isis, with a withering expression, “I don’t exactly have a cunt,” Isis’ eyes did a rather pleasant boggle at Bakura’s forthrightness, and he smirked, “Only one way out,” He gestured aggressively at his stomach, “Chest buster style or on-the-fly surgery.”

“Well a caesarean seemed like it’d be taken for granted,” Isis remarked, “You just said as soon as possible – you’re not showing, isn’t that-”

“I’m not waiting for it to crush my organs,” Bakura corrected, “It’s fucking shit up already.”

Isis rubbed her neck, fingers tracing her collarbone in thought, “I’m sorry,” She finally commented, and Bakura raised an eyebrow disdainfully, “I didn’t realize the baby had to die.”

He bared his teeth in response, “It’s a parasite, not a kid.”

“I’m still sorry,” Isis repeated, “But I suppose,” She pushed a flyaway hair back from her face, “Why are you here then?”

“What do you mean?” He nodded towards the door, “I’m here to talk with Malik.”

“That’s what I mean,” Isis repeated, “If you’re going to remove it, why are you pestering my brother?”

“Well it’s his,” Bakura rolled his eyes, “Seems fairly obvious.”

“If it’s going to die, why does that matter?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” He flashed a glare at her, “I don’t see your point.”

“Spirit,” Bakura’s mouth thinned, and Isis inclined her head, “Bakura, why would you tell my brother he is responsible for this, when you have already taken the matter out of everyone’s hands,” Isis clicked her tongue, “What happens to you – or the child – is no concern of ours.”

“It’s his fault,” Bakura growled, eyes widening.

“Ah,” Isis almost laughed, and Bakura rose up off the couch, mood prickling, “Forgive my brother for thinking sleeping with a man might prevent pregnancy.”

“It’s his fault, so he should know,” Bakura repeated thickly, “Even if it’s not-”

“He’s not yours,” Isis got to her feet, returning to the kitchen to pour another glass of water out. Bakura followed her, mouth working as he struggled to phrase his objection, “Yes?” She offered the glass.

He staggered over his words, fumbling for them, “He’s my, well,” Bakura licked his lips, “Well, he’s- he’s, he’s,” A vague hand gesture, “That I-“

“Think nothing of it,” Isis held a hand up, and pushed the glass into Bakura’s hand, “Exactly what are you going to do?”

“He’s going to help me cut it out,” Bakura began quickly, grateful for the reason, “That’s why I’m here, because Malik can help me get rid of it, that is why I am here,” With that Bakura took a thorough gulp of the water.

“I see,” Isis hooked her fingers together in front of her face, pressing her mouth into the steepled knuckles, “Then consider our resources at your disposal.”

He snorted, coughing lightly on the water, “Why would you do that, sis?”

“There is magic at work, for one; I’d like to have that seen to,” Isis removed the now empty glass from his grip, setting it firmly in the sink, “And do you think Malik would allow me to neglect this?”

“He wants as little to do with magic as he can,” Bakura turned his head lightly towards the door, “Speak of the devil.”

“Speak for yourself,” Isis put in, “My family owes you a great deal, and Malik cares for you,” Here she looked angry with him, and Bakura met the expression with a feisty grin, “I won’t see him suffer loss-” She paused, hearing a rapid tapping at the door, “Has that much time passed?”

“I must really test your nerves,” Bakura snickered, and when Isis left to answer the nervous knock at the door, he reached into the sink to pick up the glass.

“Is everything okay?” Malik was practically crawling all over Rishid in his attempt to see into the hotel room. Rishid however was a solid, protective wall, watching Bakura leave the kitchen.

Bakura dropped the glass.

“Bakura?” Malik yelped, his efforts to clamber past Rishid increasing.

“Relax,” Bakura dusted his hands, and stepped over the glass shards, “Rishid can clean it,” Bakura showed his open palms to Rishid, “You can relax too.”

With that, Rishid moved aside and Malik bowled into Bakura, frantically patting down Bakura’s arms and torso, “She didn’t- are you?”

“We had a good talk,” Isis assured Malik, and took the plastic bags from Rishid, patting Bakura on the shoulder as she passed. He waved her off, failing to rope the agitated Malik in.

“M’fine, m’fine, she didn’t eat me,” Bakura pushed Malik’s searching hands off, “As you can see?” He gestured towards himself.

“Oh Rishid,” Isis’ voice was strained, and Bakura looked up to see her peering into the bag.

“Psh,” Malik rolled his eyes, “Like it’s the first time Rishid’s helped me buy that sort of stuff.”

Rishid inclined his head sheepishly, “Supplies. We will be removing the-“ He peered at Bakura unevenly, “It will be removed tomorrow.”

A heavy weight twisted stonily in Bakura’s stomach, and he grinned, mouth tight, “Excellent.”

“Removed-” Isis paled, “You meant literally, Malik would help you?”

“Hey, no take backs,” Bakura’s voice was still straining under the odd feeling, “You said at your disposal.”

Isis glanced back down into the plastic bag, before meeting Bakura’s gaze again, “We- -we do owe you a great deal.”

* * *

“Hard to believe I missed this,” Bakura traced the stripes, laying back on the bed in a languid stretch, “It seems so obvious looking at it.”

Malik plucked his toothbrush from his mouth, screwing his face up and swallowing – Bakura narrowed his eyes at that; disgusting. Malik tipped his head, licking his lips, “Yeah, it only took me a moment… I guess I talked with Ryou over the pictures but-” Malik shook his head, and ducked back into the bathroom.

“But?” Bakura asked, attention elsewhere. He wriggled on the large bed, skimming his fingertips along his abdomen.

“But you’ve always been better with a knife than me,” Malik finished, running a hand through his hair to untangle it, “I can’t think how you missed it.”

“Stress?” Bakura raised an eyebrow, “Not that I’ve been stressed.”

“Ah,” Malik teased a knot out gently, “Of course.”

“Who knows, your other self was better than me,” Bakura laid a palm flat against his stomach, “Maybe when-” He cut off, pressing the hand in, “I can’t even feel it’s there from the outside,” Bakura’s hand searched vaguely, looking for a swell- anything.

“Better soon than later?” Malik hopped onto the bed, and shifted to sit in Bakura’s lap, dislodging Bakura’s curious hand from its investigation, “Don’t worry about it.”

Again that shifting sensation, “I’m not.”

“Liar,” Malik determined, cupping Bakura’s wrists in his hands, “Hey.”

“Not tonight,” Bakura interrupted, and Malik spluttered in response, “Oh that wasn’t what you meant?”

“Of course not,” Malik grumbled, rolling off Bakura and to the side, “I was- I’m not doing this out of obligation,” Malik folded both arms over his chest, eying the wall, “Helping you - it’s not because I owe you, although,” He looked towards Bakura, a hapless look in his eyes, “I do, a great deal.”

“That’s nice,” Bakura smirked.

Malik continued, unimpeded by Bakura’s facetious statement, “I’m helping you because I like you,” Now he studied the ceiling, “Correctly, I guess because I love you.”

He laughed at that, “Now _that’s_ nice, Mal-“

“I haven’t been faithful,” Malik didn’t even appear to be listening to Bakura, carrying on as he pleased, “Two others this year – both in Japan, obviously, but-”

“Why obviously?”

“Illegal in Egypt, not worth the trouble,” Malik waved a hand over his head, before letting his arm drop over his head, “I guess I’m just sorry about-”

“What’s illegal in Egypt?”

“Homosexuality, anyway-”

“What?” Bakura snorted, “Gods, when I walked those sands, people would fuck for public entertainment – Horus had a child by another man. Surely-”

“I’m sorry I slept with other people,” Malik finished, arm shifting to flick an annoyed look at Bakura, “I am very sorry.”

Another snort, “What for? You’re not mine, we’re not a thing-”

“Don’t,” Malik stated with a clean, unimpressed air, “Be stupid.”

That stopped Bakura, long enough for him to roll onto his side to look at Malik. He propped his chin in his hand, and nodded his head for further explanation.

There was only an answering shrug.

“So,” Bakura spoke up, “You’re saying you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

Malik’s eyes were annoyed again, locking onto Bakura’s with vehemence, “Not just like that,” He spat, “We’ve spent more than a year spending time together, watching movies, playing video games, card games, talking, going to dinner-”

“Friends.”

“Screwing each other senseless, and kissing in backalleys.”

“Good friends,” Bakura amended, “So what you’ve got feelings for me?”

“Yes,” Malik snapped, “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Bakura folded his arms over his waist, blowing a strand of hair out of his face, and legs scuffling on the bed. Finally, flushed, he demanded, “ _Why_ would you say that?”

“I want a relationship.”

“ _Why_ would you say _that_?” Bakura whined, “This is easy, non-committal sex. No consequences, no-”

“You’re pregnant!” Malik accused, “That’s a consequence! That’s like the number one consequence!”

“Why would you ruin no-strings, mindless boning!” Bakura demanded loudly, and there was a thump through the wall. Bakura shot up, pounding a hand against it, “Oh shut up Rishid! –why would you ruin that for us, Malik, why? Why would you get feelings involved-”

“Fuck,” Malik covered his face with his arm again, “I thought you wanted me.”

“Gods,” Bakura dragged his hands harshly through his hair, pulling at it, “Don’t be stupid either – I do.”

“Not like this!”

“Yes like this!” Bakura growled, and flopped back on the bed, rolling into a ball away from Malik, “Fucking acting like you’re the only person in the world with feelings to speak of.”

“Then why are we arguing about it,” Malik moaned in frustration, “I want you, you want me, we want each other, so why are we being fucking stupid about-”

“Because I can’t,” Bakura rolled onto his stomach, shivering, and snarling into the sheets, “I can’t, and I’m sorry, okay, I _can’t_ \- I’m sorry.”

Malik pulled his arm back, tucking to his side to brush his fingers on Bakura’s shoulder. Bakura expected the question to be noisier, full of selfish desire and protestation, but it was soft; heavy and gentle with affection. Bidding him, “Why?”

“They’re dead.”

It was hardly an explanation; some skinned sentence, left to the crux of the matter, and bleeding out between them. Malik shifted, rubbing his fingertips into Bakura’s shoulder. The silence welled between them, salivating into their mouths, before Bakura spoke again, voice pained.

“I don’t want to have nothing.”

The bed shifted, creaking as Malik draped over Bakura’s back. There was an ache at the weight, but mostly just the burn of Malik pressing into his back, the whisper warmth of his blood through skin.

“I love you,” Malik’s voice was a person putting two and two together and finding they would always equal four, “That’s enough for me.”

“Love,” Bakura replied, voice muffled and damp, “Wait for me?”

“H’alright.”


	6. Elaphocordyceps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is just getting longer and longer! Augh! But I chopped chapter six in half to give the material room to breathe.
> 
> Also there wasn't meant to be smut in this story - I just couldn't... seem to find a place to fade to black naturally and well. There we go.

A chuckle rose from the lump of white hair, “That’s it?”

Malik stretched on top of Bakura, yawning, “What is?”

Bakura’s laugh came louder this time, helplessly blotted by the sheets, “I just said I loved you.”

“Well you’re no better,” Malik bit Bakura’s shoulder in petulance, “You fucking laughed!”

“I know,” Bakura squirmed, trying to wriggle out, “It was funny.”

“Funny?” Malik’s face screwed up, and he bit Bakura’s shoulder harder, “You’re- you-” Bakura kicked his legs in protest, and Malik drew a hand down Bakura’s back, pushing him into the bed and holding him still, “You’re impossible,” Malik lapped at the bite insistently, and Bakura gave another thorough thump of his leg, “Stay still.”

“Make me,” Bakura growled, the sound strangely friendly in his throat, like a purr. It was tinged low, and Malik nuzzled into Bakura’s neck. Did another cursory sweep with his hands.

“I think I am,” Malik decided and Bakura gave another kick of his legs, playful this time.

He could feel Malik halfway down his back, licking and nipping, hands still pushing Bakura into the sheets, when Malik laid his cheek against Bakura’s back with a sigh. Bakura tried to twist to look back at Malik, face lost between questioning, demanding and disappointed, “What’s the matter?”

“Not tonight you said,” Malik hummed against Bakura’s skin.

“Ah yeah,” Bakura shifted his arms to prop his head up, “Yeah, that’s right, I did say that.”

“Mh,” Malik kissed at a spot by Bakura’s spine, before rucking his shirt back down, and mumbling into the fabric, “I’m always up for changing your mind.”

Bakura considered himself – that dull headache, and vaguely irritating laziness that had managed to wind itself into his muscles, and then the ache of exhaustion – before shaking his head, “No I don’t feel like-” He turned his head to the side to examine Malik’s face thoughtfully.

The thin paleness of Malik’s eyelids without the dark lines framing them, and the crisp layers of blue and clear red in his irises. The objectively fine curve of Malik’s cheekbone and dusty brush of his disarrayed hair; he reached out to tuck a strand behind Malik’s ear, thumbing under Malik’s eyes.

Leaned in to kiss Malik with his heart in his throat, resolve a flutter-sharp pulse between his ribs and teeth bared. He moved then, pinning against Malik and licking along his lower lip.

Drew back long enough to grin nervously, flush, “I really don’t feel like topping tonight.”

His message could have hit the wall over Malik’s head for the reaction he got; a quirked brow and frown.

“I’m confused,” Malik stated firmly, and Bakura cut him off again, licking coyly into Malik’s mouth, stubbornly refusing to vocalize the point he was trying to make. Malik pushed him away, “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” Bakura insisted, shoving back into Malik’s space and drawing his hands down Malik’s waist.

“You are!” Malik’s fingers curled around Bakura’s wrists, “Don’t be such a bitch-”

“I am not,” Bakura flashed his teeth, unsure whether to grimace, snarl or grin. With a scuffle of his legs, he rolled onto his back, pulling Malik on top of him. Malik tightened at his wrists, holding Bakura down.

“I swear to-” Malik began, when Bakura shifted, settling Malik between his legs. Adjusting, Bakura curled one foot around Malik’s leg, and Malik squinted, “What are you doing?”

Bakura’s grin twisted into a scowl, “Fucking really?” He huffed a few strands of hair out of his face, twisting his wrists slightly in Malik’s hold, “I don’t want to say it out loud,” Above him Malik blinked, and Bakura blew more of his fringe out of the way, “I won’t say it out loud – don’t make me.”

“I’m confused,” Malik repeated and Bakura sighed, rolling his eyes as he opened his legs further, widening the space and pitching his hips up. At last there was a pleased sound of comprehension from Malik and Bakura snorted disdainfully.

“Good boy,” Bakura taunted, testing Malik’s steely grip on his wrists, with an eager smile, and a sinuous stretch.

“You can’t communicate for shit,” Malik grumbled, nosing back at Bakura’s neck with his teeth bared and Bakura hummed when he felt the bite at his pulsepoint, craning his head back, “You’re such a fucking asshole, I swear.”

“Oh such sweet words,” Bakura cackled, “That’ll get anyone wet,” Malik shoved his weight against him and Bakura’s breath strained, a gasp knocked from him. Malik released one of Bakura’s hand to trail his fingers down Bakura’s side. Yanked his shirt up, and gazed at the exposed skin hungrily.

“Hate to break it to you, but,” Malik’s brushing hand was gone, scrabbling with the bedside table, “That is not how assfucking works.”

Bakura clicked his tongue, his free hand skimming the remaining hair away from his face, before he turned towards Malik’s neck, “Don’t remind me,” He growled between nips, “So. Gonna hurt? First time and stuff?”

“Not if I do it right-”

“Yes, then?” Bakura bit along Malik’s jawline, his free hand prying at Malik’s shirt, “Wonderful.”

Malik continued to dig around in the drawer, glaring towards Bakura, “I’m better at prep than you, so stop whining-”

He reached over to properly rifle through the drawer, and Bakura drawled, “Better? If you say so,” Malik tossed the complimentary hotel Bible to the floor, fishing the bottle of lube out with a grin.

“I do say so,” Malik set back on his heels, emptying out a pool of lubricant into his hands, before looking down at Bakura speculatively, “Hn, good downstairs?”

“Ugh,” Bakura pulled a face, and Malik shrugged, “Yes, fine, good, great even.”

“You know it’s better to ask now,” Malik peeled his shirt over his head.

“Ugh,” Bakura’s scowled further, and he turned his head to eye the wall, twisting ungracefully out of his boxers, “Shut up Malik.”

“Make me,” Malik kissed at the corner of Bakura’s mouth, before pulling back to look at Bakura cautiously, “And you? You good?”

“I’m fine, I’m _fine_.”

“Really?”

Bakura eyed Malik moodily, “I just said I was,” He bared his teeth, “Did I stutter or-”

“It’s just a bit hasty…” Malik scruffed at his hair, “I’m not sure this is-”

“This is going to take an awful long time to get to assfucking if you don’t get a move on,” Bakura snapped, flicking his gaze towards the nearest wall and yanking his shirt over his head, “Maybe I’ll change my mind if you don’t hurry up.”

Malik raised an eyebrow, settling a sticky hand at Bakura’s hip, and gently curling his fingers, “Do you want to change your mind?”

“No,” Bakura snapped, “I’m fine, come on,” He flicked a few hairs away from his face, “Don’t make me ask,” Malik moved, placing a bracing hand on Bakura’s chest, and Bakura’s breath hitched with an icy sharpness, a nervous fear flickering on his face. He swallowed it, spat out a huff at Malik’s raised eyebrow.

“Do you want to change your mind?” Malik repeated.

“You’re killing the goddamn mood,” Bakura growled, arousal leeching out of his blood.

“Alright, alright,” Malik laughed, tossing his head to get his hair out of the way. He was smirking. Bakura glared at Malik.

Bakura’s glare had morphed into an outright snarl, before humming in approval when Malik wrapped a slick hand around his cock. He furled his hands at the back of Malik’s neck, pulling him down with a shaking, shivering groan, before giving up and letting his hands fall to the sheets. Curled his fingers into them.

“Let’s just-” Malik started, falling silent as his brows furrowed and he focused on jerking Bakura off with long thorough strokes.

“Just?” Bakura’s head was thrown back, but he pried an eye open to peer at Malik, his gaze wavering until it focused at last.

Malik moved his free hand from Bakura’s chest, placing it on the bedhead, and redoubled his efforts, “Just-” His voice was a snarl, uneven with focus, “Focus on-” Bakura’s focus was a staccato drumbeat against his ribs, “You tonight.”

“No, I said-” Bakura cut off with a moan.

“You can’t even ask me to fuck you,” Malik murmured, “You need slowing down,” Despite that comment, Malik drew another throaty cry from Bakura with a loose, neat twist of his hand.

“I said-” Malik adjusted his position again, looking for that exact pressure that could shut Bakura up. He found it, hovering between tight and quick, drew it out and Bakura fell not into silence, but a low cacophony of pleased cries, whatever he had or would say thoroughly lost. There was a thunk from the room over as Bakura’s voice picked up, and Malik laughed under his breath, tossing Bakura firmly and insistently into a quivering orgasm.

He settled against Bakura’s back, listening to his breath catch and dropped his own - still slicked – hand between his legs. Shut his eyes and focused on Bakura’s heavy, satisfied pants.

* * *

Bakura woke up gradually, consciousness darting vaguely about his skull. He caught at it idly, felt it slip away and was thoroughly unconcerned by it. He shifted, letting his eyelids flicker lazily, and felt Malik’s arm about his waist. He rolled sluggishly to press into Malik’s warm chest with a yawn.

There was a greeting, slurred at him in Arabic, and Bakura kicked lazily at Malik’s legs, “Morning,” Malik mumbled in Japanese and Bakura leaned closer. Felt something bump at his back, dislodged during his roll.

He skimmed a hand back, felt the bottle of lube from the night before. Thankfully it was shut and hadn’t spilled during the night. Once they’d woken up to stained sheets, skin coated and tacky, and almost none of it from actual sex.

Bakura’s eyes opened slowly, and yawned again in a flash of teeth. He pressed into Malik again, flicked the bottle of lube to an easily reached location and sucked at Malik’s neck. Felt Malik wake hazily next to him.

“Good morning,” He grinned at Malik’s sleepy expression, watched his eyes clear, “Fuck me.”

* * *

He stepped gingerly from Malik’s room, the dull sound of the shower at his back. Personally, he figured if anybody could deal with the stink of Malik on Bakura’s body, it was his darling family, so Bakura crashed into the chair across from Rishid.

“Coffee?” Rishid pushed the coffeepot towards Bakura, and Bakura shoved it back, coffee sloshing inside the container. The smell was rancid, almost rotting in the air and this time accompanied by a deep twinge from his abdomen.

“Fuck no,” Bakura groaned, clutching his stomach, “It smells awful.”

“Suit yourself,” Rishid adjusted his newspaper, and Bakura craned his neck to look at the top of it.

“Anything about me?”

“Should there be?”

“Hm,” Bakura leant back in his spot, “Not really,” He scratched a hand through his messy hair, and grinned, “Hope you got enough sleep last night,” A noncommittal grunt from Rishid, “Given the way we were going-” Rishid looked up at Bakura, mug held up, and Bakura faltered, “Uh.”

“Malik told us you didn’t want anything serious with him,” Rishid closed his newspaper, setting his mug down.

“Well I-”

“But,” Rishid cut over Bakura, “It sounds as though that isn’t the case,” Bakura tilted his head, looking off to the side, “You hurt him with your cowardice.”

“I’m no coward,” Bakura spat, eyes flicking back to meet Rishid’s.

This time, Rishid tipped his head, eyebrow arching, “You’re trapped in the darkness of your past, and are too afraid to go into the light, for fear it will slip through your grasp,” His eyebrow settled, “That seems remarkably like cowardice to me.”

Bakura gritted his teeth, “I am no coward.”

“Then you are cruel,” Rishid decided, “Why else would you hurt someone you claim to love, or,” Rishid’s expression was testing, and Bakura felt the warning fill him from chest to throat, “Were you lying?”

“I have nothing to prove to you,” Bakura snarled in response, hands clenching tightly.

“I have watched you hurt my brother for-” Both their heads quirked to the sound of the shower being turned off, and Rishid bowed his head, voice lowering, “I have watched my brother’s heart break this last year, because of you.”

“I never meant for _that_ ,” Bakura spat, reeling, eyes widening despite his bravado.

“And yet?” Rishid’s voice was quiet, urgent, sharp with anger, “If you hurt him again-”

“I have no intention of-”

“Then accept him,” Rishid growled, “Move into the light.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Bakura’s voice cracked, and his head ducked as he fell quiet.

Into the silence, Rishid repeated firmly, “Cowardice,” before nodding behind Bakura, “Good Morning Lord Malik.”

“Told y’ jus’ Malik,” Malik mumbled, dropping into a spot beside Bakura and leaning against his shoulder. Malik’s hair was damp, leaving wet trails on Bakura’s sleeve, “Y’kay Bakura?”

“Yeah,” Bakura focused on raising his head to smirk weakly at Rishid.

“I should prepare for the procedure,” Rishid pulled his head back to finish his coffee, and Bakura felt his head swim.

Malik didn’t notice, instead turning to smile lazily at Bakura, “Looking forward to losing your ‘leech’ I bet?”

“I-” Bakura felt his stomach quiver, as though it was being pried open slowly, painlessly, “We should talk to Ryou.”

“Hn?” Malik yawned, sitting up and wiping his hair out of the way.

“Before the-” He couldn’t even say it.

“Ryou is studying medicine,” Rishid inquired cautiously, passing a cup of coffee towards Malik, “His advice could prove invaluable.”

“He’s only started,” Bakura scowled petulantly, “He’s not that good.”

“Did you wanna’ see him or not?” Malik ran a lazy hand up Bakura’s spine, and Bakura shoved it away, flushing.

“We should talk to Ryou,” Bakura muttered, “He has the photographs of my insides too.”

* * *

Bakura paced the house, stalking through each room, whirling about on his heel, and stalking back. His veins were an undercurrent of boiling lead, and his nerves were frozen over. The feeling was nameless, grabbing at his attention until his head ached. He tugged a hand through his still unbrushed hair, and scowled, taking another circuit of the house.

“You’re making me dizzy,” Malik complained, combing through another ultrasound picture. He pointed in a hushed whisper, directing Ryou’s attention. Ryou himself was looking paler by the second, as Malik casually talked him through the theoretical process.

“That’s disgusting.”

“That’s medicine,” Malik laughed.

Bakura whipped around, hair snapping through the air, “Well, is it possible or not?”

“Ask Ryou,” Malik nudged at Ryou.

“Well?”

Ryou shifted nervously on the spot, retying his hair into its early morning – eleven am was not early by anyone else’s standards – ponytail, “It’s possible, more than,” He shrugged, “I just don’t know how you didn’t see this.”

“I’m not stressed out,” Bakura snarled, bracing himself against the table with a hand. His vision seemed to be shrinking, blurring at the edges. It dipped slowly, tilting.

“Well, if we’re good to start,” Malik pointed out, and Bakura’s head was like a furnace. He moved a hand to move his fringe away from his head, and staggered off-balance before Rishid steadied him by the elbow.

“Are you okay?” Ryou’s eyes were huge, too close to Bakura, and he lashed out with a hand. It felt like moving through mud, cloying at his movements, and clogging his muscles up. He was fine. His head hurt.

Dimly, he realized Rishid was holding him upright, and that both Malik and Ryou had moved round the table. “M’fine,” He insisted, baring his teeth as Rishid deposited him to a couch, and he curled over at the sudden roar in his stomach. Absently, he named the feeling agony.

“Hey, keep your eyes open,” Malik’s voice was in his ear, “Rishid-”

“I’ve got him,” Rishid was annoying; calling him a coward, what bullshit.

“More cramps?” Ryou was on his feet, heading for the kitchen.

“Host,” He growled, tried to get to his feet, and Malik pulled him back down, “Stop it Malik,” Bakura flopped against Malik tiredly, the heat not receding from his skin, “Don’t want this.”

Malik receded from Bakura, shying back and Bakura reached for him, fingers digging into his shirt. His grip felt puzzlingly loose, and Malik pried his fingers loose gently, easily, “It’s okay, Ryou’ll be back-”

“Don’t cut me open,” Bakura whined, “S’my body, my.”


	7. Harposporium

“Well it’s probably hormones,” Ryou skirted the matter expertly, “It’s normal – and don’t look at me like that Malik – it _is_ normal.”

“He’s a guy,” Malik waved both hands, voice hissing in an attempt to stay quiet, “This isn’t normal!” He managed to whisper shout the retort and Ryou winced, gaze shifting to the kitchen entrance.

“As unexplainable male pregnancies go, hormones are pretty normal,” Ryou muttered, “Haven’t you noticed he’s been pissy as fuck since day one?”

“He’s pissy because he’s got something growing inside of him,” Malik retorted, “Wouldn’t you be pissy? Cramps are fucking shit.”

Both their heads snapped up as a clunk sounded from somewhere in the house, slowly the clunk turned into a whirr, “That’s just the dryer,” Ryou assured Malik, before fixing him with a glare, “It’s been almost two months since his last cramp, anyway,” He wrung his hands, “He wants to keep it, that’s not weird, and like I said _hormones_.”

“Hormones make him horny at 2am, but tired at 2:03am,” Malik growled, “Hormones make him eat my dinner, they do not change his _beliefs_.”

Ryou flicked the kettle on, “I still don’t think it’s a good idea to just…” He toyed with his mug, fingering at the tab from his teabag, “He’s _sensitive_ about this.”

“He’s _dying_ ,” Malik snarled.

“We really don’t know that…”

“Oh yeah?” Malik’s voice was getting louder, and Ryou waved a hand to get him to lower his volume. Malik cut off, beginning again at a whisper, “He’s getting weaker every goddamn day; something is wrong.”

“Well how about you tell him we need to cut it out,” Ryou snapped, pulling the kettle off and pouring it with a violent splash into his mug, “Huh?” Malik bit his lip, eyes flashing, “Well?”

Ryou took a sip of his still watery tea, as Malik ground his teeth, “He won’t listen to me,” There was a frantic and amused laugh from Ryou, before Malik slapped a hand over his mouth, “Shut up.”

Prying Malik’s hand off his face, Ryou grinned, “What makes you think he gives a damn what I think?” A snicker, “He’s stubborn even without hormones.”

“I refuse to believe this is h-” Malik ran a hand through his head, “Whatever, I just think you could convince him to at least consider-”

“What about you then?” Ryou gestured at Malik, “You two have been getting along great since you moved in,” He wagged a finger over his tea, “On a temporary basis, mind. You have to move out; I haven’t gotten any fucking sleep since you guys started ‘getting along’ so well.”

“We’re only getting along this well, because he’s too tired to argue,” Malik sighed, looking at Ryou pleadingly, “I tried, okay, I told you he wouldn’t listen. We could at least, both-”

“Not talk about me behind my back?” Bakura’s voice sung, tiredly around the doorframe, before he strolled in, gesturing at the kettle. Ryou flicked it on again, shifting on the spot, “Well I’m here, what am I meant to listen to.”

Malik and Ryou looked at each other, briefly pointing and gesturing with meaningful expressions, before Ryou sighed and took a step forward, “Here,” He handed his tea to Malik, and turned back to Bakura, “Something might be wrong.”

Malik watched Bakura’s eyes narrow, pupils contracting furiously, and he darted forward to stand next to Ryou, sliding the tea onto the counter, “Bakura, listen.”

Bakura snarled, the nauseous, prickling feeling beginning in the base of his spine and spreading, “I’m listening.”

“You’re getting weaker,” Malik scuffed a foot, “You sleep most of the day now. It’s sucking the life out of you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ryou glanced at Malik, then returned his gaze to Bakura, “But you’re not okay, that’s for sure.”

“I’m fine-”

“You’re really not,” Ryou cut over, he nodded at Bakura’s grip on the counter, “You can’t even stand straight. It might just be the, well-” Ryou gestured at Bakura’s middle, “But we need to check it out.”

“I said I’m fine-” The pain was hot, pooling through his skin, and he winced, “I can handle this.”

“We have to talk about this,” Ryou insisted, “You need help.”

“We don’t need to talk about anything,” Bakura had an arm curled about his middle, leaning heavily against the counter. He gazed at them with glassy eyes, “I don’t need _help_ , host.”

“I am not your host,” Ryou countered furiously, and rounded on Malik, “You see what he’s like.”

“Bakura, please,” Malik ignored Ryou, offering an open-hand to Bakura, “Listen to _reason_ ,” Bakura glared, gaze slippery, skidding over Malik angrily, “It’s killing you – I want it gone.”

Ryou shrank back, reclaiming his tea, when Bakura rounded on Malik. Whatever Bakura was about to say was swallowed up in his lunge for the sink. Curling over, a shudder rippled through his body, and he puked into the kitchen sink, coughing weakly.

“How long have been you puking blood?” Ryou mumbled, as Bakura leaned back, swiping his hand across his mouth and leaving a red smear.

“It’s killing you,” Malik repeated, “Something is wrong.”

Another groan clawed from Bakura’s throat, as he hunched over the sink again, gagging. Ryou clicked his tongue nervously, “I think we should-”

“Cut it out,” Malik interrupted, and Bakura whined. Ryou glowered at Malik over Bakura’s curled back.

“No, I was going to say we should… check it out,” Ryou gestured helplessly, “Ultrasound? Like this is a little beyond normal. Probably-”

“Not hormones?” Malik suggested with an arched brow, mouth set in a furious line.

* * *

Bakura couldn’t stop snarling, draining his lungs with one long pained hiss after the other. Between them he took shallow, frantic breaths, and ground his teeth to try to block out his noises. What resulted was a rattle of sound that rang in Malik’s ears, and he rubbed at Bakura’s shoulders again, despite the occasional glare shot his way.

Ryou paced, feet tapping whenever he stood still, mobile pressed firmly to his ear, “No, I- if,” Ryou turned back on his heel, “I said- Yes I got that-” Ryou hummed, “Okay when…”

“Fuck,” Bakura growled.

“We have got to get this thing out of you,” Malik mumbled and Bakura threw another angry look his way.

“Shut up,” Bakura’s snap keeled off into a yelp, and Malik laid his hand flat against Bakura’s lower back, letting his warmth seep into the aching muscles. Bakura groaned, “God, every time I think about killing-” He coiled over, eyes looking up at Ryou, as the cell phone clicked shut.

“I know you don’t want to think about it,” Ryou said firmly, “But you really need to consider it’s not a choice anymore,” He gestured at Bakura’s shirt, “Let me see.”

Bakura glanced off away from both Ryou and Malik, huffing between his teeth, “As you would, landlord.”

Cautiously, Ryou crouched, peeling Bakura’s shirt away to examine a curling, fresh bruise at Bakura’s side, “That’s it, Bakura,” Malik narrowed his eyes, “You can’t possibly keep-”

Ryou withdrew his fingers as Bakura whined low, head ducking, “I’m sorry, did I-”

“Stop talking about it!” Bakura’s eyes flashed warningly at Malik, as he raised his head, “Everytime I think about it, everything hurts!”

There was a flurried movement of Malik’s hands, “Something is _wrong_.”

“Well, clearly,” Ryou’s eyebrows had migrated towards his hairline, as he resettled his fingers on Bakura’s stomach, “I have no idea what’s going on right now but it’s clearly not normal.”

“No,” Malik got to his feet, scrabbling back, “The ‘hormones’,” The word was wrapped in airquotes, dripping with suspicion, “The cramps, the goddamn whole thing!” Malik’s hands waved once more, “Something _else_ is going on!” He bit his lip, “Whatever _it_ is, we need to slice and dice now- not later.”

“It’s not an it,” Ryou snapped, glancing up at Bakura who was gritting his teeth against the pain, “Clearly you talking about this is distressing him so-”

“I’m still here!” Bakura defended.

“I am not sticking around to let whatever this is _kill_ him – if it’s him or it, I’m picking him,” Malik looked at Bakura, “How about you then?”

A yelp of pain sounded, this time not from Bakura who was writhing, pressed back into the couch, but from Ryou. Ryou staggered back several paces, staring at his aloft hands. Across both palms were a series of smoking burn marks, the skin pink and shiny. Ryou gazed at them blankly, before tailing into the kitchen and knocking the cold tap on with a jut of his elbow.

“What in the hell?” Malik headed for the kitchen, before staring back at the guttural snarl from Bakura. The tone was different, laced not in pain but the undercurrent burn of rage, “Bakur-”

He watched, motionless as Bakura trained gleaming crimson eyes on him. Malik’s mouth opened, words scattered under the inhuman stare. Then Bakura threw his head back again, shuddering. Biting at his lip until blood dribbled round his mouth, Bakura pressed back into his seat, eyes clearing to a glazed but normal brown.

Malik threw himself across the room, brushing Bakura’s mussed hair from his face, “Bakura?” He asked, voice trembling as Bakura’s eyes rolled back, fluttering shut, and eyes twitching as though deep asleep, “Bakura!”

“Gone-” Ryou was standing at the doorway, hands held out and dripping water on the floor. He was pale as frost, body rigid, and eyes flared wide, pupils run like blots of ink until they almost overtook his iris. He opened his mouth, teeth chattering and voice thin, “ _He’s_ meant to be gone,” The word he was spoken quiet, reverently; a word rinsed in blood and magic, beating to some howling pulse.

“He?” Malik couldn’t say the word the same, mouth fumbling some meaning that quivered in Ryou’s bones.

“The Dark Master,” Ryou mumbled.


	8. Paraisaria

Ryou was nervous, hands shaking under the cold water, entire body trembling from head to foot. He was pale, and looked as though his nerves had emptied out. Moments ago, Malik had watched him all but yank the fusebox door off to turn it off, before sprinting back, shoving a handful of hematite into Malik’s hand, fumbling to switch his phone off, and unplugging the kettle. Finally, Ryou had returned to the tap, soothing the angry burns on his hands, “I- well I-“ He cleared his throat and began again, “ _He_ used to live in Bakura’s head…well soul.”

“Would I have felt him when I was inside you,” Malik chuckled nervously at the double entendre, but Ryou simply furrowed his eyebrows in thought.

“ _He_ was in Bakura’s soul, not mine,” Ryou decided, “I-” This time Ryou laughed, the sound quiet and wary, “I used to call him Zorc, you know after the computer games?” Malik frowned, “Oh yeah, you wouldn’t know,” Ryou looked back at the burns across his hands, “It was easier calling him something ridiculous like that…”

“What is he?”

“It’s a curse, I guess,” Ryou’s shoulders gave a half-hearted, weak shrug, “Or something like Satan, or both?” He turned his hands over in the running water, wincing, “Truthfully, I don’t know what Zorc was in the end, I guess…” He trailed off, biting his lip.

“You guess?”

“It’s not that important…”

Malik sighed, “Any help could…” He looked back towards the couch where Bakura lay unconscious, still twitching, “Help,” He finished lamely.

Ryou followed Malik’s gaze out of the corner of his eye, before shutting them quietly, “When your father tortured you, and it was torture, don’t… don’t argue,” Malik looked at the floor, “It created a monster out of you, out of your… agony, your pain, your hate.”

There was no room for agreement or disagreement, and the only noise was the gush of water, that and the silence rebounding through the room.

“I think” Ryou continued, “When Akhnadin- what he did to those people- all to bring such an evil force into the universe,” He took a steadying breath, “He did more than unleash shadow magic. That sort of death made a monster of those poor people, made them into something bloodthirsty, made them-”

“Made Zorc,” Malik finished lamely.

“Maybe not all of them,” Ryou admitted, “Zorc was probably mostly shadow magic,” He twisted his hands in the water, “But- I think he was birthed in that pain. I think it gave him shape, purpose, I think that’s how the spell worked.”

“How do you know so much about-“

“Dark Magic and vengeful ghosts?” Ryou lifted the back of his hand towards Malik, showing the faded edge of healed skin, “I think I know better than anyone what that combination can do.”

“Maybe not better than anyone,” Malik murmured, his gaze settled on Bakura, Ryou twisting to look as well. Again the sound of the water drowned the room out, rinsing the conversation away.

* * *

Bakura skimmed at the ugly bruise stretched across his stomach, face crinkling. There was a thudding in his head, that was all too quickly sounding like angry voices and shifting sand. It clawed hungrily into his skull, and he swallowed around the pain, “Zorc cannot revive without the items,” He stated firmly, “They’re the gateway through which the shadow magic can travel.”

“And yet?” Malik gestured at Bakura, “You were possessed by him – your eyes…”

“It was definitely the same presence,” Ryou murmured, looking at Bakura uncertainly. He was fiddling with a lump of rosequartz nervously, “I’d know it anywhere, all those voices…”

“I think I would too,” Bakura returned a shivering hand to the bruise across his abdomen. The discolouration was a wet slick of blue and purple, splayed over his waist in a gruesome band.

Ryou arched an eyebrow, “And how often have you been possessed?”

“I was more often-”

“On the other side of the equation, hm?” Ryou’s teeth showed, flashing in a gesture that was far too familiar to Bakura, “Let me fill you in, then, you don’t _feel_ possession – you get told about it.”

"Doesn’t matter, it can’t be Zorc," Bakura shook his head, "He is sealed beyond the rift, with the items-"

“Zorc isn’t just shadow magic-”

"You're not though. Sealed away," Malik interrupted, crouching next to Bakura with a wary expression, "The universe just sort of spat you back out. Couldn't it do that with the items?"

Bakura tossed his head back with a snort, "All things in this world are possible I suppose," He shook his head, "There's no reason for it to return the items, and even if it had returned the items, wouldn't it use the Underworld Tablet?" He fingered the bruise, “Why would it waste its time with me? Punishment for my failure or not, this is a colossal waste of time for Zorc,” Bakura tilted his head, “Besides, there’s no reek of shadow magic.”

"Zorc isn't just shadow magic," Ryou repeated firmly.

"You may have mentioned?" Bakura returned a shivering hand to the bruise across his abdomen. The discolouration was wet, and fresh, splayed over his waist in a gruesome band.

"You didn't listen though," Ryou looked down at his bandaged hands, "Zorc was shadow magic and what was left of those poor souls,” Bakura flinched, head aching as he struggled forward, “The Spirits of-"

Ryou was seized by the scruff of his shirt, and yanked to Bakura's eyelevel, "Don't you fucking say its name."

"The Spirits of Kul Elna," Ryou continued, meeting Bakura's thin gaze and matching it, "Were what powered the forging of the items, and the rift between the realms, the same rift you keep saying is closed."

“Atem’s spell more than did that,” Bakura growled, tightening his hold on Ryou’s shirt.

With a violent pull, Ryou strained away from Bakura, teeth still showing, "Their fury is what gave strength to the magic, what shaped the Dark One," He pointed, hands clumsy but expression imperious, “Zorc is not just _shadow_ magic-"

There was a rap at the door, and Bakura looked up in alarm, quickly shifting to fury as Ryou went to open the door, “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Ryou called me,” Atem snapped, “Zorc is _sealed_ , what have you been _doing_ Spirit?”

“Bakura,” He thrashed up from the couch, fingers curling into fists as Malik shoved him back down, “My name is Bakura.”

“No, it isn’t,” Atem looked away from Bakura, tilting his head at Ryou, “What did he do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Bakura snarled in protest, once again trying to get to his feet. There was a yelp from Malik, as he withdrew his hand, the skin smoking.

“What was _that_?” Atem demanded, face twisting in shock.

Bakura recoiled, eyes locked on Malik’s injured hand, “I didn’t-”

“Get it under cold water,” Ryou moved aside to give Malik a clear path to the bathroom, “Atem try and keep back, I think the Spirits are furious you’re here…”

“I’m furious he’s here!” Bakura yowled, “Did you call him whilst I was unconscious! Ryou you dick!”

“Spirits?” Atem twisted to look at Ryou, “I laid them to rest,” Bakura, who was snarling, teeth bared at Ryou, twisted to squint at him, "I told the Spirits to judge me and my father brought them to peace."

“No,” Bakura interrupted, eyes blazing, "Only in the Dark Game, you didn’t back then," Something in Bakura's gaze snapped, leaving only a tired frown, "Those shades were no more the dead than any of the characters were the living,” He looked off to the side, “I don't see why you realizing too late should amount to anything."

“The Dark Game was real,” Atem countered.

“Tch,” Bakura looked off to the side, “It’s just a game Pharaoh,” He rolled his eyes, “I suppose your vessel who wasn’t born yet, dueled a version of me from my future on a gaming system that had yet to be invented, for a game that would not been seen in its current-”

“I think we get it,” Malik was peeling a water-gel from its packaging, kicking Ryou’s medical kit into the room. Bakura followed him, eyes settling on Malik’s injury, his expression tense  with concern, and guilt. Malik took his place by Bakura on the couch, “I’m okay.”

“Bakura, Zorc isn’t just _shadow_ magic,” Ryou insisted again, “He’s _soul_ magic too,” He turned to look at Atem, “Would you be willing to lay the spirits to rest a second time?”

“Huh?” Both Atem and Bakura spoke, before twisting to glare at each other, Bakura’s teeth showing and Atem’s nose wrinkled. Malik hushed Bakura gently, but the snarl didn’t fade.

Ryou stood up, marching for Bakura’s room, “They’re getting strong enough to possess Bakura,” He stated firmly, “We need to move fast.”

“Why to my room?” Bakura complained, getting to his feet and even hissing Atem, who held both hands up in the air.

There was a loud thump from Bakura’s room, before Ryou peeked round the corner of the door, a sheet strewn over his head, “I keep all my stuff in your room, of course,” With that Ryou disappeared back into the room.

A moment later, Bakura was swirling paint and salt together, whilst Atem and Ryou painted careful wards on the kitchen walls, “Got it,” Malik peered round the back of the fridge, brandishing the plug.

“Are the knives gone?” Ryou clicked his tongue, readjusting his hold on the paintbrush and Malik nodded in confirmation, “Okay then,” Ryou indicated a cupboard, “Find some of the white sage in there?”

Ryou flicked the blinds shut, and Atem raised his voice in wordless complaint, mid-ward, “The light attracts dark things,” Ryou informed him, leaving no room for complaint, “I don’t want anything _else_ involving itself.”

Bakura gazed sourly down into the pale pink paint, gritting his teeth. His head swam; now that he could focus on it, he became aware there was a hiss of voices echoing at the back of his head and-

There was a sharp chime, and Bakura blinked, “Huh?”

“Oh, you _can_ hear it then?” Ryou shook his fist again, and there was another sharp, reverberating chime. The voices in Bakura’s head fell silent again, before picking up their rattling noise.

“I can’t hear anything,” Malik protested.

“Really?” Atem trotted over, “It’s a fairly loud bell, may I?” He held out a hand, and Ryou offered him the bell, “Hm, no ringer, some kind of engraving…”

“It’s a charm,” Ryou smiled sheepishly, “Sort of a clicker for, uh,” He glanced at Bakura, “Malignant spirits.”

“I object to that,” Bakura sniffed, “I’m not a spirit anymore.”

“I think your – and Atem’s – association to magic might be why you can both hear it. Yuugi and I can barely hear it” Ryou tipped his head, “Does Yuugi know?”

Atem looked off to the side, handing the bell back to Ryou, “Not yet,” He admitted, “I left a message.”

“God,” Bakura rolled his eyes, “I never understood why I was the _bad guy_.”

“You stabbed me!” Ryou sounded furious, before sucking in a breath, “Okay this isn’t going to work if we keep getting worked up,” Atem and Bakura directed prickly glares at each other, “Malik, try and keep Bakura calm, I was hoping Yuugi could help with Atem to be honest.”

“He’s out with Grandpa,” Atem shrugged, “They’re hiking.”

“Out of cell phone range?” Ryou clicked his tongue, “And I live so far out it’d take too long to get someone else…”

“I’ll behave,” Atem said so seriously, that Bakura snickered and Malik jabbed him lightly in the ribs.

“You’ll kinda need to,” Ryou set his paintbrush aside, clenching his fist around the blessed bell, “I’m going to mediate between the spirits and your bloodline.”

Bakura barked out a laugh, “How do you propose you do that? They’re just voices in my head, hardly magically potent enough for some lifetime movie healing. They won’t even be able to communicate.”

“Yes they will,” Ryou eyed Bakura, “They’re going to talk through you, of course.”

“Excuse you?” Bakura gaped at Ryou, “They’re going to what?”

“Possess you.”

“I don’t fucking think so.”

“Don’t be such a hypocrite,” Ryou snapped, sitting down and shoving the paints away from Bakura, “Light that sage and string it up over the stove, Malik?”

Malik scrabbled to his feet, as Atem sat down across from Bakura, with Ryou between them, “I admit, I’m wary about simply allowing the spirits to possess him…” Atem looked at Bakura nervously.

“I doubt they can pull a parasitic mind outside Bakura,” Ryou commented, “Otherwise why would they be doing this-“ Another euphemistic gesture to Bakura’s stomach, and he coloured in response, “It wouldn’t make sense, not to mention they could only hold him for a few seconds.”

Atem did not look convinced, “But you are not positive.”

Ryou sighed, setting his bell in front of him, “I don’t think you understand, Atem,” He looked at Bakura, as Malik took a spot next to them, “You might,” He conceded, “They’re feeding off you Bakura, I don’t think you realize how alarming what they’ve done to you is.”

“I am _pregnant_ – oh everybody pull a mature face, will you – with literal demon spawn! I think I know how fucking goddamn alarming this is!”

Malik brushed at Bakura’s shoulder, “Ryou’s just telling Atem we don’t have time to be sure.”

“I don’t want to be possessed,” Bakura muttered, but ground his teeth, “Okay how do I-” He snarled, curling over in pain.

“Like that,” Ryou offered, “Making them use their influence on you should bring them to the fore. You said thinking about-”

There was a snarl, and Bakura looked up again, eyes hazy but a clear brown, “For god’s sake’s shut up,” There were several more groans, and a tremor set through Bakura’s body. Atem and Malik met eyes, uncomfortably across the circle, whilst Ryou looked on with a cold expression. Another minute stretched passed, and Bakura began cussing stiltedly under his breath.

“You’re not trying.”

Bakura glared up at Ryou, a flicker of crimson in his eyes, “I’m fucking-”

“You need to let go,” Ryou stared Bakura down, “Trust me- just-“ There is a flutter of crimson in Bakura’s eyes, the glint of a slitted pupily, “You have to stop fighting it,” Bakura groaned, snarling, blinking. His iris snapped between red and brown, and squeezes one shut.

“I’m- fucking trying,” Bakura growled, staring at Ryou with the remaining eye as it shifted from red to brown, a nictitating membrane – a distinctly non-human nictitating membrane – toying at the edge of his eyelid.

“We can’t stop it,” Ryou insisted, “You can’t stop it, it will _hurt_ you if you resist.”

Bakura’s back straightened, and he opened the other eyes, revealing the vivid otherworldly light. Malik shrank back cautiously, but if Ryou – who had been shaking like a leaf just discussing this presence – was nervous, he gave no indication of it. Atem and Bakura locked gazes, and Malik swore he could feel the air cracking, bending and straining between-

Ryou shook his hand firmly, and both Atem and Bakura, or whatever Bakura was at that moment, snapped to look at Ryou.

“Burn,” The Creature spoke, twitching- -a flicker of a brown iris showed in the left eye. It directed its attention to Atem again, giving another judder, before opening its mouth to show rows upon rows of teeth-

“Stop,” Bakura- definitely Bakura, scrabbled back, eyes definitely brown, his hands thrown up in front of him.

Atem threw a hand out in alarm, before recoiling as something struck, lashed out in a slash of magic. The skin on the inside of Atem’s hand was seared away.

“No!” Ryou yelped, head flicking back in a violent jerk, and Malik seized either side of Bakura’s face, voice twisting into a noiseless cry of fear. The sensation was dim on Bakura’s skin, a thinning sense of the world.

His vision burnt in and out, like an eyelid bleeding over his gaze-

“Bakura!” Someone called into the black and the red and – The world snapped out, clicked out, twitched, yowled and stretched through Bakura’s skin. Trespassed into his nerves-

Scalded through his skull-

Threw him into his own mind, like some helpless host, some helpless host to a parasite. Like he’d thrown Ryou a thousand times over. He was in the world he had built inside his own head – blue and foggy – he and Malik had argued here once, whilst Bakura twisted in a hospital bed. It was familiar, painfully so; he had whiled away so many hours here. So when the sky groaned under the weight of fiery colours, he felt the alien presence keenly. Sharply.

He was not alone in his mind – he had never been alone.

He struggled to his feet, skin prickling and trying to see past the blue haze, “What on-” The mist crawled up his legs, winding through his limbs and pulled him to his knees. He felt it hard in his bones, felt them crack and groan with the force.

Stared powerlessly up at the ghoulish sunset that knifed through his mind. “Let me go,” He snarled at the possessor, struggled at the fog- when he felt something spatter hot and burning on his face.

“What?” Bakura jaggedly raised his hand to clutch at his cheek, and it came away sopping with blood. Burning, and too warm. He shook his fingers out, but the sky was dark with the boiling blood. Patterning his face in rosettes and speckles, like pinpricks of fire.

Bakura scrubbed at the blood, and felt his skin come away in clumps; he screamed-

Collapsed into a ball, as his flesh fell away, dripped from his skeleton. He could see the bones. See them inside out. He could touch them, touch his bones, he could touch- Bakura reached out- small hands clutching at the rib cage of his adult self, child’s voice crying out-

He was a small child, trapped inside his own bones, and he rattled them- Shook them-

“Let me go! Let me out!” He was engulfed in his own blood, caged inside his own ribs, “Please!”

Sobbed, and sobbed- “Stop it! Please stop it!”

The bones were dust in his small hands, disintegrating to sand, and he recoiled, clinging to himself, “Stop it! Make it stop!” His blood cloaked him, gathered into the impossible shape of the King’s coat. Red and sticking to his skin.

 _Gold to Blood! Dust to Dust,_ came the bay of the spirits, searing into Bakura’s mind, _Turn it back! Turn it back!_

“Stop!” He clutched at his head, “Stop, stop, stop-“

_Gold to Blood! Dust to Dust! Flesh to Fire! Turn the Gold to Blood and the Flesh to Fire and the Bones to Sand! Turn them all!_

“Leave me alone!”

The ground cracked beneath him, dissolving and searing at his bare feet. He yelped, scrambling up, and scratching at the rock and sand. Bakura ran across the blistering sand, the cloak catching, smearing blood behind it. It was too large for him, and he tripped in it, was sent sprawling across the burning, broken sand.

He got to his feet, thin legs wavering, and the floor beneath him fell away- Kul Elna was crumbling around him- He was in Kul Elna, and it rotted, decayed, fractured everywhere.

Bakura clung to the ledge, fingernails catching slivers of rock and fingertips bleeding, as he crawled up, panting into the bloody dust.

_Turn them all! Turn every last one! Bones to Sand! Blood to Gold and Gold to Blood!_

The earth beneath his cheek was heated, melting him into it and he pulled away, his cloak of blood trapping him in the sinking sand. His fingernails were gold and he could feel it burning up his legs and arms, “No, stop it! Stop it! I don’t want to die too!” He tried to pull himself from the swirling mixture of gold and blood, “Let me go! I don’t want to die with them! I don’t die here!” He pulled, and felt skin pull away, whined, “Please, I don’t die with Kul Elna, please! Don’t put me in the ring!”

The Spirits saw him, saw him then and he cried out to feel their sight. It was a shockwave; something burrowing into his skull. The Spirits saw him struggle, heard him beg-

Disinterestedly, they reached out with a long tendril of blood to push him further into the gaping maw of the earth. He could taste the sand, and the blood, and gold, coating his tongue. Bakura thrashed hard.

“I don’t die with you!” He screamed, and the gold filled his mouth; its taste was thickened with the flavor of blood, “I live! I survive this-“

There was a clang, metallic and sharp on the tongue, and he felt the sand drip from him, felt the gold cool on his skin, felt the blood tack.

 _You?_ The voice was too much inside him, and he held his head, moaning, fingers winding into his hair. Catching on the drying blood.

_You are not Free! Everyone shall be Blood! You Die With Us!_

“No,” He clawed from the sand, blood catching under his nails, “I don’t die here! I don’t! I saw this, I saw this and I lived!”

_Nobody Lives-_

“I lived,” He threw his head back, laughing, and struggled to his feet, “I live,”

 _Lies_ \- “I lived, and I live on,” Bakura pulled the cold gold from his body, pried it from his hair, felt the blood cool and settle on his skin, felt his strength return, “I am the Thief King no longer,” He threw the gold to the floor, “I renounce it.”

_You cannot, you are ours, you are ours, child you are ours!_

“I am no child,” Bakura snarled, and felt the familiar flick of his hair at his shoulders, the strength in his hands, his own body. Perhaps not the one he had once had, but his, his own. Grown, strong, his not theirs, “It has been five thousand years; I don’t want this anymore! Stop it! We have to stop it!”

 _How dare you renounce us, how dare you_ , The Spirits were hissing with fury, smoke coiling about him in tight, cloying tendrils, _How dare you abandon our past? Look at what was done to us-_

Bakura gestured around him, arm sweeping over the wreckage of Kul Elna, “Look at what you’ve done to us then – There is nothing left of our past! Our buildings and bones and souls have turned to dust,” He snarled up into the miasma of darkness and fire, “We have forgotten our own names; I don’t know mine, I don’t know yours,” He brushed his hair from his face, still sticky with the freezing blood, “I don’t even think you know yours anymore,” He was shaking, “Our past is _gone_!” Bakura ducked his head, hair falling over his eyes, and he swallowed a sob, “There is nothing left of what we were – our ways, our people, ourselves – we are reduced to blood, nothing but blood. We’re nothing but blood.”

 _Yes!_ The Spirits crowed, _Gold to Blood! Turn the Gold to Blood! Turn the-_

“No! I refuse!” Bakura’s gaze snapped back to the spirits, eyes flashing, bright with tears, “I have had everything stolen from me, you cannot take my future, you cannot, you’ve had everything of my past-“

_They stole our futures from us! All the futures! They stole them all!_

“You cannot have mine!” Bakura was running- running for his life- for his future- straight at the Spirits, “Let me go!”

He leapt, feet tangling as he reached out, hands hooked into claws for the Spirits. Grasped them tight and bloodily in his hands and-

The world ran warm, like wine over his senses. A blank sheet of pale yellow, like gold beaten to a pale thin flake. He was running, a child again, running- running- running, not for his life.

For-?

“Come on-” The sound was muffled, but the girl called his name, laughing high and bright. The air was musty with dust, and his legs were small and clumsy. The two of them ducked and darted through the cobbled streets, feet scuffing at the sand.

An old man with a mule laughed at them as they passed; a woman carrying water swore after them, as they wove about her feet.

“I can’t catch up!” He panted, struggled, reached out- hands hooked into claws, tight and bloody and sly.

“Catch me if you can and-” It was a game, it was just a game. The girl had a thinly woven crown on her head, “Steal my crown,” They ran through the houses, ducked into the tunnels, ran underground.

Kul Elna opened into the tombs, and there was no stink of blood, no fear of death. Joy of life and sweet knowledge – the smell of pitch, workmen eating bread as children ran past. Their footsteps light with the sureness of Home.

“I can’t!” His breath was heavy in his chest, and the sand was whispering, as though stirred by the wind.

They dodged the half-built traps, leapt over half-built spikes, and half-filled pits of sand.

And she laughed again, “Steal my crown and you can be Thief King for a day!”

“Wait up!” He begged, voice sharp in his lungs, struggling to grasp her.

“Not for you,” She called back, and that was her error. As she half-turned, he lunged for her. Fingers hooked into claws, into claws, into claws, into-

He caught her by the ankle, clambered over her, grabbed the crown and brought it down on his head with a grin. A grin that could split his face and pull his teeth out and-

The hiss of the sand, the Spirits murmuring, crying in apology, _live, live, live, live, live, live_ -

The crown was thorny on his brow – dug into his forehead with needle claws – and he opened his mouth. The girl pulled him close, whispered his name in his ear-

“We’re sorry,” She told him, his name still lush on her tongue, “Live, live, please live. Live-”

The world dissolved, not into blood, but into light and-

He woke crying. Long tears, and a laugh welling in his mouth, spilling out with each fresh sob. The sorrow in his heart was hot and burning, and he swallowed around it, cried-

“Are you in pain? Speak to us-” Malik, he could hear Malik. How he loved him bloody and warm and cool and how they were the same. Scarred, broken open and diverted. Used by their own dark desire, and how beautiful Malik was.

How could he not let himself want? Malik was beautiful. How could he-

How could he have woken? Lost the last taste of the past? The thought drew another sob from him, shaking from his throat. He raised his arms, pressed his palms to his eyes and wept into them.

“What’s wrong?!” Someone taking his pulse, oh those cool hands, Ryou, Ryou, Ryou-

His future was his, but his past was gone, it would always be gone. He knew that now. He couldn’t even remember his own-

“My name!” He choked out, “My name is Bakura,” The word rolled off his tongue differently, a beh-ku-rah, a /bɛkuræ/. Lone soul, it meant lone soul in the old tongue, “My name is Bakura.”

* * *

Bakura traced the catching shape of the scar, running a finger along the skin, “Well everything looks good,” Ryou leaned back, tossing a cloth to Bakura, “You’re fine,” Bakura scrubbed at the gel on his stomach, flicking the cloth away from him disdainfully.

Bakura eyed Ryou, “No more miracle demonic possession parasite leech baby?”

“Honestly your body dissolved most of it, once the spirits cleared out anyway,” Ryou tipped his head at Bakura, but said nothing, reaching out with a nervous hand to pat Bakura’s.

He pulled his hand away, before curling his fingers in Ryou’s insistently, “I’m at peace,” He murmured.

“Good,” Ryou gripped Bakura’s hand hard, “I’m glad,” There was another pause as they both looked at their interlaced fingers, “Do you…regret the way it turned out?” Ryou frowned, “That you won’t have that,” He paused again, awkwardly swallowing, “A kid – that you won’t have that with your boyfriend?”

Bakura wriggled his hand out from Ryou’s hold, “I have Malik though, that seems like plenty,” Ryou hummed skeptically, and Bakura gave a quiet huff, “Honestly, I’m just relieved, and no,” His eyes narrowed, “I don’t think that’ll change and I’ll have some kind of fucking breakdown in the shower. I never wanted any of it.”

“That doesn’t mean it can’t hurt you,” Ryou pointed out quietly.

Bakura scruffed his hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, “You of all people should know better,” He reprimanded, “It invaded my body,” He bared his teeth, voice determined, “It doesn’t matter if it was a baby or a foetus or a zy-goat or a monster; I don’t _have_ to hurt over it, and I shouldn’t be expected to feel broken or mourn something I never wanted.”

Ryou gave a slow, but crisp nod, eyes dropping in apology. Satisfied, Bakura made to pull his shirt back down, pausing to study the scar once more, when Ryou finally spoke up, “It’ll fade.”

“Hm?” Bakura’s gaze flicked back to Ryou’s face.

“The scar – it’ll fade.”

“Oh,” Bakura pulled his shirt back down, smoothing the fabric over the scar, “That doesn’t matter,” He grinned weakly at Ryou, “First scar of my new life,” And then he laughed, “After all the scars I gave you, this is probably just fair.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin with making this fair,” Ryou arched an eyebrow, and his smile faltered.

Bakura tilted his head at Ryou, fingers clenching in his shirt, and swallowed, “They’ll fade, maybe,” He murmured gently, avoiding Ryou’s eyes, “But it won’t be fair – I owe you too much,” He looked down at the floor, testing his words, “Thank you, Ryou, you are a better person than I can credit you with…” The moment was cloying, disturbingly so, and Bakura got to his feet, hurrying past it, “Anyway, I need the car today.”

“Oh,” Ryou got to his own feet, looking almost shocked at the change in Bakura’s tone, “Your boyfriend has to go back to Egypt tomorrow, right?”

“You know his name,” Bakura rolled his eyes, “You don’t need to refer to him as my boyfriend every time he comes up in conversation.”

“Hey,” Ryou held his hands up, “After how long it took to get you to admit it, I’d like to rub it in.”

“Charming,” Bakura shoved his hand into Ryou’s pocket, and Ryou kicked out at him, “Hang it,” He snarled, “Give me the keys.”

“Oh my fucking god, Bakura,” Ryou leapt away from Bakura, and threw the car keys onto the ground a few feet away, “Just ask!”

He swiped the keys up with a delicate movement, snorting, “As you would have me do, landlord.”

“Speaking of that,” Ryou commented, “When are you going to start paying rent?”

“Eh,” Bakura twirled the keys on his fingertip, already shoving the door open, “Malik and I’ll pick up groceries on the way home.”

“Pick…up?”

“By which I mean,” Bakura grinned, letting the door swing shut into Ryou’s face, “We’ll _buy_ them.”

“Good.”

“Mostly…”


End file.
